Victory
by LDaemon
Summary: "If a victory is told in detail, one can no longer distinguish it from a defeat."   Sartre -  The battle is won, but at what cost? AU, rating for later chapters.
1. Over

**Disclaimer: ****Everything you recognize belongs to the inimitable JK Rowling and Co, who are kind enough to allow us to play with her toys. Everything else is mine.** No moneys made, no moneys sought****

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><p><strong>AN So this is an idea that's been whirling about my mind for a few months.. I have a vague idea of where it's going, but it's gonna be a bit of an experiment... dealing with issues I've never written about before. I don't want to say much more than that; anything you need to know will be explained as it moves along. **

**As always, I love to hear your thoughts. **

**-LDaemon**

**This is the quote which inspired the whole story: _"If_**_** a victory is told in detail, one can no longer distinguish it from a defeat." ~ Sartre**_

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Over<strong>

It was over. That was the first thing Severus Snape thought as he limped back towards the castle from the Shrieking Shack. Bodies littered the grounds, smoke and the putrid stench of death filled the air, coating his throat with its vile essence. He tried not to look down, tried not to identify the students, faculty and Order members spread across the grounds like a mass offering to some grotesque and insatiable god. Aurors, Mediwizards and various officials ran back and forth, paying him no mind - a fact which he found most curious. He needed to find someone - Minerva or Dumbledore, ideally, and discern what had happened the previous night. He picked up his pace, as though that fact alone would ensure that they had been spared the apparent carnage.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that he had survived, tried not to think of _her_, the girl who had refused to let him fully pay his debt. Snape had been counting on this; he had been counting on fulfilling his obligation to that _other _Gryffindor, paying off his debt, giving what was owed. His life had been forfeit for twenty years; even Dumbledore, at the end, no longer pretended there was any hope of Snape surviving. His only remaining obligation had been to ensure that Voldemort remained ignorant of the Elder Wand's true mastery; let the Dark Lord kill him and face Potter unaware of the wand's true allegiance. That was it; perhaps the simplest task Snape had ever undertaken on behalf of the headmaster. And he did it; he performed as he was meant to and was more than prepared to welcome the sweet respite of death, the comfort it would bring him from this torment that had been his wretched life.

And then that _chit_! That insufferable swot of a girl had, against his will, plied him with Dittany and Essence of Murtlap, poured three vials of anti-venin into him, shoved a bezoar down his throat and rapidly and efficiently healed his wounds. The chit was so sure of herself, her movements quick and mechanical as though she'd spent her life healing fatal wounds. She pried his worthless, fucking soul from the clutches of Death and he was not what anyone would call grateful for it.

He made his way up the steps, through the courtyard and towards the Great Hall. Again, no one paid him any mind and he felt a flicker of hope that perhaps he had, in fact, died and was now just a spirit or some other manner of being.

"Severus?"

_So much for that_, he thought wryly, turning in the corridor to face the Headmistress.

"Oh, Severus!" Minerva rushed up to him and gripped him in a tight embrace, ignoring Snape's protesting expression. "We thought you were dead! We won, Severus! We won!" she babbled incoherently. "Harry saw you die! He told us! "

"Yes, well, as with so many things, clearly Potter was mistaken," he drawled, disentangling himself from the woman's embrace.

"Thank goodness!" she replied, although a twinge of melancholy seeped into her eyes. "You've nothing to fear, Severus. Albus has already spoken with the Ministry and the Head of the Auror office. They will not be persecuting you," she finished on a more subdued note.

"Hmm," he intoned in clear disinterest. "Where is Dumbledore?"

"He's in the Great Hall. That's where we've put the poor souls who did not make it. Madam Pomfrey has a makeshift hospital between the infirmary and the courtyard. The parents will begin coming in soon to retrieve their children."

"I will speak with Albus. Let me know if you require anything from me."

"Of course, of course."

He nodded his head to the witch and turned towards the Great Hall.

"Severus?" He turned back to her. "I am happy that you survived," she said sincerely, brows creased with concern and fatigue.

He inclined his head in thanks before turning back around.

Severus walked into the Great Hall, surveying the scene before him, managing to somehow contain his horror at the sheer number of bodies laid out across the hall. He saw a cluster of red and turned. Arthur, Molly, Percival, and Ginerva Weasley were clutching one another in a tight, tense ball of grief. The youngest Weasley was wailing almost uncontrollably as her father tried desperately to soothe the lot of them. Severus' eyes turned to the ground next to them and saw it. All but the two standing Weasley children had been killed; his eyes glanced over the elder two, the twins, then the youngest boy. Looking at Ronald, his eye was pulled to the body next to him and he puffed out a breath.

Potter. Potter was gone. Dead; laying there beside his friend, glasses still perched on his face. Severus felt a familiar stab of failure in his gut. It had all been for Potter. Every sacrifice, every bout of the Dark Lord's displeasure, he had endured for _her _boy. The boy-who-lived, the boy-with-her-eyes. And for what? It was pointless; the entire victory was pointless, if the boy did not live to see it.

Severus glanced next to the young wizard. He'd almost missed her. Granger was sitting on the ground by Potter's body; her knees were drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped around them, gripping her wand like a lifeline. Her face was blank, eyes unblinking as she stared at the lifeless bodies of her friends. The girl's hair was an abomination of knots and tangles flying around her head; caked blood and dirt covered her from head to toe and Severus could see hastily healed slashes and wounds scattered across her face, neck and hands. She was unmindful of everyone, taking no notice of him or the wailing Weasleys. She just sat there, staring at the bodies, so still, he wondered how she was even breathing. He shook his head to clear it, turned and looked for Dumbledore.

He made his way over to Albus and stood quietly at his side waiting for him to finish speaking to some wizard who had Ministry stink all over him. When he was done, he turned to Severus with a weary smile, the ever-present twinkle completely absent from those ancient blue eyes. He laid a hand on Snape's forearm and led him to a quiet side of the room.

"Severus," he began. "I am happy to see you, my boy."

"I wish I could say I was happy to be here, Albus, but I never enjoy lying to you," the potions master replied, black eyes scanning the room to avoid looking at the man.

The old wizard smiled kindly at him. "It's over, Severus. The price was high." Dumbledore glanced over at the Weasleys. "Much too high, but at least it's over now. Tom is no more, Harry was successful."

"I'm delighted to hear it," Snape said, rather unconvincingly.

"Do you want to tell me how you survived? The last Patronus you sent indicated that it had gone as we expected."

"Indeed, it did," Snape replied, crossing his arms uncomfortably. "I do not wish to speak of it here."

"Fine," he said with a good-natured pat on his arm. "It's been a trying time for us all. I know I ask too much of you, Severus -"

"What do you need, Albus?" he replied eagerly. He needed to do something other than stand here looking at dead students.

"I'm sure Poppy will be needing a great deal of potions as St. Mungo's is quite overrun with the injured. Those less severely so will remain at the castle for the time being -"

Snape nodded and cut in, "I will begin brewing immediately."

"Thank you, Severus."

He nodded to the old wizard, turned around and made his way out of the room, eyes on the ground, avoiding eye contact with anyone he passed on his way to the dungeons.

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><p>Six hours and four dozen vials of medicinal potions later, Severus returned to the Great Hall in search of Poppy. He needed to get an updated list of what she had in stock in order to know which potions he should concentrate on in his next bout of brewing.<p>

He stepped into the Hall, noting how it had cleared out substantially since that morning. Doing a scan of the room he saw what seemed to be the blasted Weasleys still laying in the same configuration. The remaining family members were nowhere to be seen, but the bodies remained as they had been earlier, albeit covered over now. The Granger girl was still there as well, still in the same exact position. Had they forgotten her? Where had the Weasleys gone? Surely they would have taken Granger with them, having all but adopted her following her parents' death a few years back. But there she was, still with her arms wrapped about her drawn up knees, staring blankly at the covered bodies of the boys. Severus looked around and caught sight of McGonagall.

"Minerva?" he said, coming up to her side. "Why is the Granger girl still sitting there? Where are Arthur and Molly?"

The older witch turned to him with a wide-eyed, frantic look. Her long, gray hair - usually pulled back so primly - was still in disarray around her shoulders.

She looked around him to the girl. "I don't know where they've gone, Severus," she replied. "I only just arrived a few minutes ago myself."

He nodded at that. "Where's Poppy?" he inquired.

"Outside, in the courtyard," she said absentmindedly, already turning away from him to tend to something else.

He left the witch and made his way outside, not sparing a glance to the girl as he passed her.


	2. There was Nothing There

**A/N Thanks for the reviews! I'm so glad everyone is receptive to the story. **

**A point about Severus being able to automatically begin brewing and walking around was brought up; it does seem unrealistic and will be dealt with in a later chapter ;) **

**Also, about Minerva and Dumbledore not seeming to grieve for Harry; while I do think that they could be cold at times and regard him as a means to an end rather than just a boy, but more than that I think they're all in a state of shock and would deal with it differently. **

**Ok, enough babbling :) Enjoy the chapter! **

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: There was Nothing There<strong>

The grounds remained a disaster, mountains of rubble and piles of debris still smoldering under the bright sun... but at least most of the bodies had been cleared away. Severus picked his way to the far side of the field, having caught sight of Poppy flitting about, shouting orders to a troupe of what looked to be first-year Healers. He saw Hagrid pointing his umbrella at mounds of debris, vanishing it or sending what could be repaired sailing to a pile in one corner of the courtyard. The half-giant saw him and nodded his way with a small wave. Severus returned the nod, but did not stop to chat, continuing on until he reached Poppy's side.

He conferred with the witch about her stock, enduring a long-winded rant from her about the level of help that had been sent to assist her; all first-year Healers and some volunteer Aurors and citizens with little-to-no mediwizard training whatsoever. He could see no other way to shut her up but to volunteer his own healing services - admittedly more tailored towards Dark Magic than conventional healing. The witch grabbed onto the offer like a lifeline, immediately setting him to work and giving him a band of dunderheads to oversee.

Many of them were former students of his and visibly quaked in fear as he stalked over to them and began barking out orders. Once he was done, they scurried away to complete their assigned tasks while he made his way over to the hospital wing to look over the more serious cases with the mediwitch.

An hour later, Dumbledore joined him in the hospital wing, having spent the majority of the day with Ministry officials and members of the press trying to explain the actions and events of the past year.

"Severus," he said quietly, placing a hand on the wizard's arm.

He turned to the old man, wand still poised in the process of healing, a slight scowl on his face.

"You are needed in the Great Hall. Come," he commanded in a somewhat distracted tone, already turning towards the door.

Severus muttered an oath under his breath, but ended the diagnostic spell, called over a Healer - quickly explaining the situation - and followed Dumbledore out of the hospital wing.

On the way down to the castle's ground floor, Severus quickly - and in hushed tones - filled the old wizard in on what had occurred during the battle. He had told him, via Patronus, about the conversation with Voldemort concerning the Elder Wand's mastery and how he'd successfully fooled the Dark Lord into thinking that he possessed it. He relayed what happened next in short, succinct sentences - Nagini's attack, the brief discussion with Potter and handing over of the memories, in addition to his vague recollections of Granger's actions once the boys had fled the Shrieking Shack.

The headmaster paused at that and turned to Severus, eyes widening as he asked, "Why on earth would she do such a thing?"

The potions master snorted. "I've been asking myself the same question, Albus. It hardly seemed worth the effort."

The headmaster smiled kindly at the wizard. "That's not what I meant, my boy. I am truly happy to see you alive and well," he said with a pat on his arm. The old wizard's brow furrowed in thought. "But as far as the three children were concerned, you were a traitor and murderer, loyal to Tom without any doubt. Why would she do such a thing?"

Severus remained quiet; his mind unwillingly thought back to the brief glimpses and flashes he could remember from the event, unable to come up with a valid reason why the girl should consider him worthy of saving instead of joining her friends in battle. It didn't make any sense at all; the girl had no reason to believe him worthy of it.

The previous year, Severus and Dumbledore had concocted an elaborate plan to fake the headmaster's death. The point of which was twofold; on the one hand, the 'death' would cement Severus' standing with the Dark Lord and solidify Potter's resolve, while on the other, Dumbledore would be free to execute his search for the Horcruxes. And that was what he'd done, the old wizard had spent the year scouring the country - and in some cases the continent - in search of those horrid objects, aiming to destroy them one by one until Voldemort was rendered a mere mortal once again. However, things did not go exactly as planned and at some point - Severus still did not know when exactly - the boy and his sidekicks had been roped into the search as well. Snape had been kept only sporadically informed by the headmaster during the year - informed, more often than not, meant _ordered _to do something - and so still had only the vaguest idea of Potter and Co's nearly year-long search for Horcruxes.

Snape, for his part, had spent the year practically living in the Dark Lord's pocket, attempting to ferret out his weaknesses and any information which might be passed along to Dumbledore in the hopes of winning this Merlin-forsaken war. It was one of the darkest years of Snape's very dark life; he had seen far too much, been compelled to join in far too much and, in general, felt so awash in darkness that he was quite certain he would never be free of it.

And then the previous night, after a year spent manically plotting Potter's death, the Dark Lord had had some sort of attack - Severus was convinced that he'd felt the final Horcrux being destroyed - and in a fit of paranoid rage, had laid siege to the castle, calling forth every last Death Eater he could summon. That had not been part of the plan as Severus had been subtly suggesting the idea of attacking Potter as he attempted to make his way to London once his mother's protection was canceled. But Voldemort was adamant that Potter would not be able to resist coming to Hogwarts when he found out it was under attack and so Severus barely managed to fire off a Patronus to the headmaster alerting him to the change before making his way to the castle.

And so he had arrived on Hogwarts' grounds with the other Death Eaters, and when the battle started he somehow managed to feign attacking the side of the Light when in actuality he spent most of his time deflecting spells from students, Aurors and Order members while cursing Death Eaters in the back. At some point, perhaps an hour or two in, he was summoned to Voldemort's side where he'd carried out his final task as well as he could. He remembered feeling nothing but the most profound relief as he lay bleeding out on the floor of the Shack. He even found relief in the scorn and rage he saw in Potter's eyes when he had passed on the memories. A scorn and rage that were mirrored in Weasley's eyes as well... he could not remember what Granger's eyes had held; although in hindsight, clearly it had not been either scorn or rage.

Severus shook himself from his recollections and continued following Dumbledore down the hall. They fell into an uneasy quiet, each lost in their own thoughts as they rounded the final corridor and moved into the Great Hall.

Severus' eye was immediately drawn to the girl. Inexplicably, she remained perched on the ground - cross-legged now - still staring unblinkingly at the floor where her friends' had lain, arms folded across her midriff, rocking herself back and forth silently while Minerva and a few witches he didn't know murmured amongst themselves as they watched her. The bodies were gone, the floor cleared away, and yet she remained, staring quietly at the ground before her, the edge of her wand poking out of a tightly-clenched fist. Minerva saw them and scurried over.

"She will not move, Albus," she whispered once she was before them. "We were too frightened to try and forcibly remove her lest she 'break' somehow," the old witch said, her eyes watery and looking older than even her years would belie.

"She cannot stay here, Minerva," Dumbledore replied, looking to the girl with a desolate frown on his face.

"I realize that," she huffed in response. "But there is nowhere to take her. The Weasleys are in far too much grief to take her at the moment, every available space here and in the hospital wing is full - especially considering she does not seem to be wounded," she added with a look behind her to the girl.

"Not physically, anyway," Severus murmured, eyes narrowing as he too looked to the girl.

Minerva turned back to him, face flushing lightly. "Of course, of course," she said in flustered tones, wringing her hands slightly. "I hesitate to take her to Gryffindor Tower, Albus. There are far too many memories for her there."

"Of course," he concurred with a nod.

Just then, they were interrupted by a group of Ministry officials stalking importantly into the Great Hall, demanding an audience with Dumbledore and the headmistress. Severus snarled at the useless bureaucrats before turning his attention back to Albus.

"Severus," he said distractedly as he waved the officials to the far side of the room with Minerva. "Please remove the girl from the Hall."

"Where shall I take her?" he snarled in response, glaring at the ministry wizards who were casting dubious glances his way.

"Take her wherever you are going, Severus. She cannot be alone," he replied, already making his way across the Hall.

The potions master growled low in his throat before turning back to the girl. She seemed entirely unaware of any and all conversation or occurrences taking place around her. She simply sat there, eerily quiet as she rocked back and forth in a subconscious act of comforting herself, arms wrapped tightly around her form as though she feared some kind of spontaneous disintegration.

He walked over to her, looming above her tiny form and spoke low, his tone pitched for her ears alone. "Come along, Miss Granger."

She ignored him. It was nothing less than he expected; the girl was barely present.

"Miss Granger, come," he repeated, louder and sharper, in a tone which always ensured obedience from his students.

Again, she seemed to not hear him, making absolutely no change in her posture or actions. He gave a long-suffering sigh, feeling the headache which had been growing behind his eyeballs all day suddenly reach gargantuan proportions. Why couldn't she have allowed him to die last night? Why was this service of his seemingly never-ending? It suddenly occurred to him as he stood there over the silent girl that he could just leave. He could simply vanish to the house in Spinner's End and never to set foot in this school again.

He had done his duty, going far above and beyond what the headmaster had asked of him, for over twenty years - never complaining, never defecting, never refusing anything the old wizard requested. He had played that dangerous game of cat and mouse - living that double life - enduring the punishments, the vile acts he had been obliged to commit, the barbs and not-so-veiled insults of the Order. And for what? for this hollow excuse of a victory? a victory that _her _boy did not even live to see? Is this what he had toiled and fought for? to spend his first hours of freedom - given that he had not been allowed to die - playing nursemaid to a grieving child?

A small part of his mind realized he was being petty and selfish, but _why shouldn't he be? His _youth, _his _years had been sacrificed - _willingly _- for this fucking war; why shouldn't he now be free to be as selfish as he would like? He felt his head nod at the thought. Yes, he could leave; he could turn around right now and walk out of this never-ending nightmare with a more than clear conscience. Someone would eventually sort out the girl. These children were no longer his responsibility.

Giving another firm nod, he made to turn away, pausing at the last second to look at the little witch again. She wasn't crying, nor did it look like she had been. Her big brown eyes were dry - not puffy, not red, not at all the eyes of a teenage girl who should have spent the last hours bawling uncontrollably. His own eyes narrowed as he flicked his wand at her. Nothing; there was nothing there. The witch had no physical injuries that he could discern (other than fatigue and dehydration), but his spell showed that her magical stores were thoroughly depleted. There was nothing there; he would have been shocked if the Gryffindor could execute a simple _Leviosa _and he found himself wondering whether it was the grief or her efforts to save his life which had depleted her stores.

Giving another long sigh, he flicked his wand at her again, wordlessly lifting her off the ground. She made no sound or movement of protest, remaining quiet as she drifted behind him out the Hall and down to the dungeons.


	3. Depleted

**A/N Thanks again for the lovely reviews!**

_**Coming up: Hearings and Memorials**_

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Depleted<strong>

Severus directed the hovering girl into his old quarters; he'd overheard that Slughorn had fled the castle at the first sign of trouble and if Snape knew the man at all, he would not be returning anytime soon. He hadn't given the room more than a cursory glance when he'd come down earlier that day - or was it the day before? - to brew Poppy's potions. Looking around now, he was pleased to see that the old potions professor had not changed much, aside from a hideous red velvet settee opposite his old desk. He set the girl down on the wide blue sofa before the fireplace. Flicking his wand at the grate, it flared to life with a crackling, warm flame, illuminating the dim room.

The girl remained quiet, eyes on the ground, as he stood there watching her for some sort of reaction. Muttering a spell, he maneuvered her body into a supine position, stretching her out on the sofa. Giving another unconscious sigh, he moved to the private laboratory. He pulled several vials down from the shelves and made his way back to the nearly catatonic girl. Kneeling at her side, he tipped her head back, and forced her mouth open to pour various restorative and replenishing potions down her throat. The role reversal was not lost on him and he quickly and efficiently emptied the vials into the girl before casting more detailed diagnostic spells on her.

Her magical stores were severely drained; it was an occurrence which only happened in cases of extraordinary stress and/or injury. His brows furrowed, eyes narrowing as he looked at the results; he'd never seen a depletion of this level before and began to seriously wonder whether it was her efforts to save his life which had resulted in her state. It didn't make sense; the healing spells she'd used on him should not have drained her so badly. Or was her grief so all-consuming that it was preventing her magical stores from rejuvenating properly?

Severus felt a surge of anger rip through him. He had not asked for this; he had not asked for her to save him, risking her own life and health in the process, and he would be damned if he'd feel guilty for it. With a snarl of annoyance at his former student, who was staring almost lifelessly at the ceiling, he turned and stalked to the lab to resume his brewing.

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><p>When Severus woke sometime later, it was to the distinct feeling that there were far too many Gryffindors in his chambers. He blinked his eyes open, feeling as though he hadn't slept in ages, to the sight of Minerva and Dumbledore looking down at him, the former with a slight scowl of disapproval while the latter simply looked as weary as Severus felt.<p>

Wordlessly, he glanced over to the girl. She remained on the sofa, blissfully unconscious, and it all came rushing back to him - the battle, Granger's actions, spending hours - possibly _days _- brewing endless vials of potions for the hospital wing. That thought brought another niggling to the fore; how had he been brewing those vials? His magic should have been rather depleted as well, unless he'd been running on pure adrenaline. Severus shifted to sit up straight and heard the clink of the glass against his boot; clearly he had fallen asleep and knocked it over. Minerva scowled down at the glass as though he were some errant sixth year and he returned the look to her tenfold.

"Severus," her thick, Scottish brogue washed over him, grating his already frayed nerves. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Babysitting your cub, Minerva," he drawled, voice hoarse and rough, "as I was requested to."

"You authorized this?" she replied, turning her glare on Dumbledore.

"I told him to take her wherever he was going, Minerva, so she wouldn't be alone."

"But to his private chambers?" the old witch said in a scandalized tone.

"What precisely are you accusing me of, Madam?" Severus hissed, standing to his full height as he faced her.

"Nothing, Severus," Albus replied in a placating tone, shooting a warning look at his colleague. "She is accusing you of nothing at all. Is the girl alright?"

The potions master gave Dumbledore his own incredulous look, sneering at the pair of them. "Of course she is not alright, Albus. The girl is unresponsive, catatonic, and practically a Squib; so no, I daresay she is certainly _not _alright."

"A Squib?" Minerva exclaimed, turning and kneeling at Granger's side, waving her wand up and down her form. Dumbledore remained focused on Severus, expecting some explanation.

"She is drained," he sighed, wiping a hand over his face, wishing they would take their precious Gryffindor and just leave him be. "Her magical stores have been depleted."

"Is she injured?" Minerva asked, brushing that unruly hair back from the girl's forehead.

"No," he hissed, patience waning rapidly. "It is stress which is causing it. Stress and a great deal of grief, I would imagine."

Dumbledore looked at him sharply when he mentioned 'stress' and Severus knew the headmaster was thinking along the same lines he'd been.

Minerva nodded and began quietly crooning to the girl, trying to wake her gently while Dumbledore looked on. Severus Accio'd his fallen glass and walked over to the cabinet for more liquor, not bothering to offer any to his intruders. He stood there nursing a glass of Firewhiskey as Minerva slowly and gently woke the witch, simultaneously casting the Cleansing Charms that Severus had not bothered to cast on her.

Granger remained unresponsive for some moments as her former Head of House pulled her out of that deep sleep his potions had sent her off to, but suddenly she bolted upright with a gasp of surprise. Minerva mimicked the gasp, rocking back on her heels as she spoke to her in low, comforting tones.

"Miss Granger?" she asked, peering into her face. "How do you feel?" Severus gave a loud snort at that. "Can you answer me, Hermione?"

The girl looked at the witch warily, seeming confused, as though McGonagall were speaking another language. She turned on the sofa, bringing her feet carefully to the floor. Her large brown eyes looked over the witch's shoulder and met Severus' as he was lifting the glass to his lips.

"It worked," she rasped out, voice hoarse from disuse and sleep. "I didn't... I didn't think it worked," she finished, shaking her bushy head of hair as she looked down at her lap.

"You didn't think what worked, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore spoke up.

The girl's head snapped up, noticing him for the first time; her eyes widened immeasurably as she looked at him, breathing growing heavier. She looked around the room then as though trying to discern where she was.

"Did I die?" she asked softly, in what Severus thought was an oddly hopeful tone.

"Why do you say that?" Minerva replied gently, reaching a hand out to smooth the girl's hair. Granger flinched, pulling herself away as her eyes scanned the room and its occupants again.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"You are in Severus' old chambers, my dear," Dumbledore replied, looking more worried by the moment.

Her brows furrowed and she gave a slight snort, causing Minerva and Dumbledore to trade pointed looks.

"I'm in Professor Snape's personal chambers, laying on his sofa," she began haltingly, placing her small hands palms-down on the fabric. "Professor Snape isn't dead nor is the headmaster." She looked at the latter, tilting her head to the side as she laid eyes again on the wizard she hadn't seen in over a year. "I'm not crazy." She seemed to be trying to convince herself rather than them. "So, this is either a very odd dream or... I'm dead," she finished, giving a firm jerk of her chin the way she had always done whenever she'd neatly and succinctly wrapped up an answer in the classroom.

Severus gave another rather inelegant snort before taking a large swig of Firewhiskey and plopping back down into his armchair, reveling in the liquor's burn as it washed down his throat.

Dumbledore took a step towards the girl as Minerva tried to wrap her arm around her, but Granger flinched out of her grasp again and the old witch backed off, rising to stand beside the headmaster.

"Miss Granger," Albus began in an oddly uncertain tone. "You are not dead nor is this a dream." She fixed dubious eyes on him, listening intently. "It would seem that your efforts did save Professor Snape's life. As for myself, well, suffice to say I am not dead, and you shall hear the full story, but perhaps at a later time when you are feeling more yourself," he finished with a sad smile.

"Myself," she repeated, eyes shifting towards the fire as she took in the old wizard's words.

"Miss Granger," Minerva said. "I have a room prepared for you in Ravenclaw. Let's take you there, get you cleaned up and you can rest properly."

She gave a small nod of her head, eyes unfocused as she stood up, faltering slightly on unsteady feet. Minerva reached forward and took her by the arm. Granger flinched but seemed to force herself not to pull away. With a nod to Albus and himself, Minerva began leading the girl from the room.

They made it to the door, stepping out of it before Granger stopped and turned back to them, her hollow eyes finding his.

"Thank you... for letting me rest here, professor," she said in a low tone. "I'm glad you survived," she continued in an almost whisper. Her gaze fell on Dumbledore as she was turning back to the door. "You as well, headmaster," she added, not waiting for a response before stepping out of the room ahead of McGonagall.


	4. The Hearing

**A/N Super long chapter for you here; I hope it clears up some questions as to what has happened precisely, while - hopefully - posing additional ones ;)**

**Also, the first chapter of Purpose Part II is about half done and the first 6 or 7 chapters have been outlined and I'm really excited to move on them, so yay! :D**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: The Hearing<strong>

Severus did not see hide or hair of the girl for the next three days, but he did hear about her... oh, yes, he heard a great deal about her.

The insufferable Gryffindor seemed to be the only topic anyone at the castle was capable of speaking of and he heard rather more than he wanted to over the next three days.

Minerva went on at length about how as soon as the Death Eaters had arrived on the grounds, the girl and Weasley had sprung out of the front gate, right on Potter's heels as he raced off to fulfill his bloody destiny. A long-winded story about the trio eventually becoming separated with Granger returning to help defend the courtyard, fortifying the Protegos the professors and students had cast over the castle, was told from several different perspectives. Ruminations abounded on where she had gone when the girl had apparently abandoned the courtyard and gone racing across the grounds. Talk of her many 'heroic' acts were tossed back and forth across the High Table as though it were some sort of deranged sport - Granger healing here, fighting there, apparently deflecting hexes all over the place like some blasted avenging angel or some other such tripe. This was, of course, interspersed with eulogies to Potter and his friend Weasley, with the table reduced to tears on several occasions as they told and re-told various tales.

More than once Severus bolted from the High Table early or chose to take his meals in his chambers just to avoid all the deification going on around him. At one point, even he was added to this list of heroes whom apparently deserved worship as the staff fawned all over him, telling him how brave, loyal and dedicated he was, how they were so proud of him and so remorseful for their words and thoughts towards him. Hogwash, all of it, and he didn't tolerate it for a moment. In fact, it was the only thing that made him to lose his patience faster than talk of the girl.

And through it all, there was an undercurrent of responsibility, of what the staff should do with the poor, orphaned Gryffindor; talk of offering apprenticeships, donating time and money, offering to set up meetings for the girl to find employment, all these options were bandied about the castle freely.

No one mentioned the surviving Weasleys. No one ever mentioned them as an option for the girl and Severus resolved to not wonder why.

* * *

><p>On the fourth day, when he saw her again, it was under even more abhorrent conditions. They - he, Dumbledore, Minerva and the girl - had been summarily summoned to the Ministry of Magic to give testimony concerning the events of the past year.<p>

Granger's countenance was not much improved, and in fact - to Severus' eye - seemed much worse, though one could hardly imagine how such a thing could be possible. He had arrived at the courtroom earlier, having accompanied Dumbledore to the Auror office for additional questioning prior to the hearing. And now he sat, wrapped protectively in his billowing, austere black robes and watched the little witch quietly follow Minerva into the Wizengamot courtroom; her head was down and she looked positively miniscule in her thick jumper and too-large cardigan. Her eyes were just as hollow and lifeless as the last time he had seen her, features pinched in tension and other emotions Severus wasn't very proficient in identifying. He idly wondered whether she would be physically capable of testifying as word around the castle was that the girl was practically mute.

She took a seat beside McGonagall, eyes briefly scanning the full Wizengamot Council surrounding her. It was an impressive sight to one who had never seen it, Severus supposed as his own dark eyes flicked over the fifty members of the court, all fully assembled in their deep purple robes and official millinery. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Acting Minister for Magic, presided over the hearing and wore a solemn and somber expression as he watched the girl and older witch take their seats on Dumbledore's other side. He waited until all had settled before calling the room to order.

"The three hundred and sixty-seventh Council of the Wizengamot is now called into session," he intoned, the only sound heard that of the young court scribe's quill as he furiously kept notes. "This session constitutes a hearing by this court of the Battle of Hogwarts and the events leading up to and culminating in the defeat of the wizard known as Lord Voldemort." A shudder seemed to ripple through the court at the accursed name and Severus saw the girl give a slight snort of derision from his periphery.

"As you all know, a separate, and extensive, hearing has already been conducted in which you heard from Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape regarding their respective parts in these events. Today we will be hearing from Hermione Granger who will provide insight into the events from the perspective of the late Harry Potter." He turned a kind eye towards the girl, but she seemed to not notice as she twirled a loose thread of her jumper round her finger. "Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape and Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Minerva McGonagall, will be on hand for clarification purposes.

"I would like to remind the court that this is _not _a judicial proceeding." Kingsley seemed to fix his dark eyes on certain members of the Wizengamot as he said it. "This is a hearing for the Ministry's records and our collective knowledge. No one is on trial here," he finished with another firm glance to the court. That done, he gestured to a wizard standing at the podium beneath him.

"Thank you, Minister," he said with a respectful incline of his head.

Tugging his expensive-looking robes into place, the wizard stepped down from the podium and onto the center of the floor, scanning the rows of council members before fixing his beady black eyes on the girl. The man was made of the same useless clothe as any other bureaucrat, Severus thought with a sneer in his direction. He looked about fifty and was slight of build, short with narrow shoulders. Thin wisps of brown hair escaped his judicial cap, the wide brim casting a slight shadow over his deep-set eyes. His small mouth was set in a grim line as though forcibly acknowledging the severity of the hearing and the solemnity of his role in it.

He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest, turned to the assembly and spoke as loudly as possible, his slightly nasal tone grating Severus' ear, "My name is Edmund Broxbourne. I am the Chief Investigator of the Wizengamot and will be directing today's hearing. As the Minister so correctly pointed out, this is not a judicial proceeding, but is merely an inquisition into the events of the past year." He turned once again to the girl. "If you will take your seat, Miss Granger, we can begin," he said, gesturing to the large, mahogany chair in the center of the floor.

Minerva gave the girl a reassuring pat on the arm, an action which was repeated by Dumbledore as she stood and carefully made her way down the steps and towards the seat. The council members watched her careful movements and slightly tentative footing; she looked as though she hadn't used her legs in some time and was unsure whether they would hold her up. Making it to the seat without incident, she sat down - back straight, hands folded in her lap - and turned her passive gaze to the investigator.

"Will you state your full name for the record please?"

"Hermione Jean Granger."

"Age?"

"Twenty years old." She sounded like a automaton to Severus, her tone colorless and bland.

He paused, looking down to peer at the files on the tabletop at his side. "Forgive me, Miss Granger, but my records indicate that you were born in 1979."

"Yes," she replied in a bored tone. "I used a Time Turner in my third year which added nearly a year to my biological age. If you would like me to be very specific, I am nineteen years and seven months old." She fixed the wizard in her cold, expressionless gaze. "Give or take a few weeks."

"A Time Turner!" one of the harpies in the back row of judges exclaimed. "In the hands of a third year! Albus! Explain this immediately," she finished with a pseudo-glare at the former headmaster.

The old wizard stood wearily from his seat by McGonagall. "Certainly, Madam Whittaker," he said solicitously. "You see, Miss Granger has always been a diligent and extremely enthusiastic student," he began with a gesture to the girl. "She has also always exhibited a degree of maturity far beyond her years. Consequently, when she expressed a desire to attend more classes than her schedule demanded – and which time would allow for – she was given a Time Turner to aid her towards that end."

"A Time Turner in the hands of a thirteen-year-old can have disastrous consequences," Broxbourne commented, backed by the murmurings of the court behind him.

"Fourteen," the girl piped up from her seat, causing the wizard and presiding court to turn to her. "I was born in 1979, hence I was fourteen in my third year," she finished with a slightly disdainful scowl on her tired features. Severus felt his lip involuntarily quirk in amusement.

"Yes, yes, of course," the wizard mumbled in reply before turning back to the headmaster.

Dumbledore was smiling affectionately at the young girl, who made no indication that she noticed, as he carried on. "Indeed, it can have disastrous results," he agreed. "But as I said, Miss Granger exhibited a maturity far beyond her years and with a strict set of rules and instructions from myself and Minerva." He gestured to the witch at his side. "We felt that she would be more than capable of controlling the device."

The wizards and witches of the court murmured amongst themselves for a few more minutes before Kingsley brought his gavel down and called them back to order. Once silence had prevailed, he gestured to the wizard to continue.

"Very well," he said, regrouping with another glance to his files. "And you're a Muggleborn, correct?"

The girl's brown eyes flashed amber at that; a trace of the fire and indignation Severus remembered seeing at times when she was a student resurfacing briefly in their depths as she answered. "I don't see the relevance of that question," she replied with gritted teeth. "But yes, I am."

"Simply trying to get our facts straight, Miss Granger," he reassured, ignoring the scoff the girl emitted. "No offense is intended. Now, you're a seventh year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, correct?"

"Not exactly," she replied.

"No?"

"Harry, Ron and I left the school in October of last year."

"Would you please state the full names of your compatriots for the record?" he urged from his spot back at the side table.

She flashed him another indignant glare before responding in a clear voice, "Harry James Potter and Ronald Bilius Weasley."

"Thank you. And why precisely did you leave school?"

She gave a deep sigh, as though just now realizing how long and involved this entire process was bound to be.

"Harry received a message indicating that there was a Horcrux that we needed to find. So, he decided he would be leaving school to retrieve it and Ron and I went with him."

"What kind of message?"

"It was a copy of the Daily Prophet and on the front cover was a photo of Delores Umbridge." The girl's lips curled in slight disgust at the name. "She was wearing Slytherin's Locket around her neck. The Locket was a Horcrux," she finished succinctly.

"How did you know that?" the wizard asked. "Indeed, how did you know anything about Horcruxes at all? To the best of my knowledge, they are not part of Hogwarts' curriculum."

Nobody laughed at the feeble attempt at humor and if anything, the disdain on the girl's face grew exponentially.

"Harry met with the headmaster in our sixth year… They met several times throughout the year, in which Headmaster Dumbledore spoke to Harry about the Horcruxes; what they were, how they were used, his theories about what they might be –"

"And Mr. Potter relayed the details of these meetings to yourself and Mr. Weasley?"

"Yes."

"Very well. And the Locket?"

She sighed again. "Harry and the headmaster went on a mission to retrieve a Horcrux at the end of our sixth year. They came back with a Locket, which Headmaster Dumbledore thought to be a Horcrux, only it turned out to be a replica. Therefore, when we saw Umbridge wearing one, we knew it had to be the original."

"I see," he said. "And so you set off to retrieve it?"

"Yes, as I've already said."

"Did you inform anyone that you were leaving? Your Head of House, perhaps?" He gestured to McGonagall.

"Professor McGonagall was serving as headmistress at the time and so could, obviously, no longer be our Head of House," the girl replied, sounding as though she were gearing up to quote some article from _Hogwarts: A History_. "But no, we told no one. We packed up what we could and left one night."

"Hmm," he hummed at her answer. "Did you know who the message came from?"

"No."

"How did you know you could trust it?"

"We didn't."

"Then why did you act on it?"

"There was no other choice," she replied somewhat impatiently. "Harry knew that destroying the Horcruxes was the only way to ensure that Voldemort would die," she explained, ignoring the slight intakes of breath that shot through the courtroom at the name. "We thought Dumbledore was dead, the Order was practically dissolved. Harry felt it was up to him at that point to ensure that they were all destroyed. Whether the message was from an ally or not was immaterial," she finished.

"I see," the wizard said. "That was not the only contact you received though, was it?"

"No," she replied. "We received some help during the year. We were never sure who it came from."

"What sort of help?"

"The Sword of Gryffindor was brought to us."

"Was the Sword a Horcrux as well?" he asked, "like Slytherin's Locket?"

"No," she snapped in reply. "It could be used to destroy them."

"And how did you conclude that? Did the Sword come with a message?"

"No."

She ran her hands over her face; Severus could see her weariness coming through and wondered how much more questioning she would withstand before either dropping out of the chair or exploding in a wave of belligerence.

She seemed to collect herself before answering. "I had thought for some time that the Sword could destroy them. The headmaster left the Sword to Harry in his will, but it had apparently gone missing." She shot a glance at Dumbledore, who simply nodded to her to continue. "I thought that there had to be some significance to him bequeathing the Sword to Harry and at some point, it came to me," she trailed off, eyes unfocusing as she remembered.

"What came to you?" the wizard urged.

"Harry killed the Basilisk in second year using the Sword… He also stabbed Tom Riddle's Diary using a Basilisk fang and at some point in sixth year, Professor Dumbledore told him that he believed the Diary to be a Horcrux. So…" She shrugged, ignoring the rumblings going through the court. Apparently, they were not aware of all that had gone on at Hogwarts and she sincerely hoped they wouldn't force her into a re-telling of _those _tales.

"So, at some point, it all clicked in my head that we would be able to destroy them using the Sword," she trailed off again and Severus found himself admiring the girl's deductive abilities. That she had come to that conclusion based on the information they'd had was nothing short of remarkable; he'd begrudgingly admitted to himself long ago that Granger was perhaps the brightest witch to pass through Hogwarts in many generations, but he had consigned her to the arena of 'book smarts'. He could see now that her fierce intelligence extended far beyond mere recitation of textual facts.

"That's why we went to Godric's Hollow." He heard her add absentmindedly.

"You went to Godric's Hollow?" the investigator repeated.

"Yes, around Christmas," she confirmed.

"To look for the Sword?"

"That and a Horcrux, which Harry believed might be hidden there."

"I see and what happened at Godric's Hollow?"

The girl gave another long sigh and reached for the glass of water that had been placed on a small table at her side. She took a long drink, eyes closed against the assembled witches and wizards, set the glass down, and took a deep breath before launching into the story.

Severus sat there, as stunned as the rest of those present, as she recounted the tale of the old woman who had lured them to her house. He was not as surprised as the others were when she got to the part where the old woman's body had disintegrated, revealing it to be the Dark Lord's horrid snake. He felt a flare of resentment towards Dumbledore and impotent anger roll through him as he realized how close they had come to dying that night, and how all would have been lost had it happened. It was not lost on him that it was only the girl's quick thinking and actions which had saved them from that fate… and he unwittingly found himself wondering how many other similar situations she had saved the boys from over that year.

"And after these events, the Sword was brought to you?" Broxbourne clarified, pulling Severus from his thoughts.

"Yes."

"But you did not know by whom?"

"No," she replied, casting the briefest of glances at Snape. "Harry mentioned seeing a Patronus, but none of us recognized it."

"What shape did the Patronus take?"

Her brown eyes flicked briefly over the potions master once more before she answered, "A doe."

"In other words, a deer?" Broxbourne clarified inanely to buy time as he glanced back down at his notes.

Granger fixed him in her icy gaze and replied, her voice a colorless deadpan, "Yes, a female deer."

It was a remarkably efficient way of ferreting out those of 'lesser blood', Severus thought as he could not stop a small grunt of amusement from escaping his throat while several wizards and witches tittered softly in response. Even Dumbledore looked around in puzzlement at the Muggleborn and half-bloods' reactions. Kingsley had to resort to beating his gavel again for everyone to return to order.

Broxbourne was sorely putout, seeming to comprehend that the laughter was at his expense though he clearly did not understand the reason for it. But he re-grouped, puffed his chest out again and strode closer to the girl.

"What forms did your and your friends' Patroni take?"

"I don't see the relevance of your question," she replied, meeting the wizard's eye.

"It's not for you to see the relevance of it, Miss Granger," he said in response, leaning forward slightly in her direction. "It's for you to answer my questions."

A small grin took up residence on the girl's face, almost feral in nature, and for the first time, Severus could plainly see the Gryffindor lioness in her and all that would entail; for the first time since he'd known her, he could reasonably imagine her casting a _Avada _and wondered how much battling she had done during the war, whether she had cast any Unforgivables, whether she had killed anyone.

Broxbourne leaned back, standing straight, as he awaited her response. Granger's gaze never left his as she answered, "Ron's was a dog, mine is an otter and Harry's was a stag, though I'm quite sure you already knew that," she finished, her amber eyes scanning the council members before returning to the investigator.

"What happened then, Miss Granger? Presumably you destroyed the Locket once you obtained the Sword?"

"We did."

"And then?"

"And then we were snatched. Harry inadvertently said the Dark Lord's name - breaking the taboo - and Snatchers appeared. We were chased through the forest and eventually they captured us and took us to Malfoy Manor."

"And who greeted you there?"

She gave the investigator a sharp look of annoyance at his mild tone. "Lucius, Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. Along with Bellatrix Lestrange and two wizards I didn't recognize."

"I see; and what happened there?"

"They took Harry and Ron somewhere and Bellatrix questioned me about the Sword, which they took from us. She seemed to think we had stolen it from her vault at Gringotts and that, consequently, we must have stolen something else as well."

"But you hadn't?"

"Not at that point."

Severus smirked in admiration at the young girl, feeling a strange sort of affinity with her prickliness.

"So then what happened?"

"She kept interrogating me about it, but I had no clue what she was on about. At some point, I'm not sure when as I had lost track of time -"

"Lost track of time?"

"I lost consciousness several times."

"This was due to something Madam Lestrange did?"

"She didn't offer me tea and kindly inquire about my activities, Mr. Broxbourne."

The wizard huffed. "Then what did she do, Miss Granger?"

"She used Cruciatus on me," she answered curtly. "Several times, for I don't know how long. That's why I lost consciousness."

Broxbourne had the decency to at least look abashed at this statement, the wizards and witches of the council tittering consolingly as they looked at the girl. Severus felt a familiar rage swell in his gut at the thought of Granger writhing on Malfoy's floor under Bellatrix' attentions. He looked at her again, her quiet strength as she sat there enduring the never-ending questions; knowing now what she had gone through, it was a wonder the girl hadn't cracked yet. _Perhaps this is what her cracking looks like_, he thought with a small trace of alarm as he tilted his head at her.

"A question if I may," one of the older council members intoned from his place near Shacklebolt. The girl turned her passive eyes up to his face. "Why wasn't the Dark Lord called immediately upon your capture? I assume the Malfoys realized they had captured Harry Potter?"

"I had shot a Stinging Hex at him before the Snatchers caught us, to disguise his appearance," she replied. "It worked for a bit but they eventually figured it out. At that point though, Bellatrix was convinced we had stolen something from her vault and apparently she didn't want the Dark Lord to know that and so he wasn't called."

The ancient wizard nodded at that and leaned back in his seat. Broxbourne puffed his chest out again and turned back to the girl. "What happened then?"

"Somehow Harry and Ron managed to escape, I still don't know how... we didn't get a chance to talk about it," she continued haltingly, eyes losing focus slightly as she remembered. She shook her head and turned her gaze back to the investigator. "Dobby was summoned, we grabbed the Sword and he Apparated us out."

"I see," he said, somewhat uselessly. "What happened next?"

The girl took another deep breath and reached for her glass of water; the minute tremble of her hand did not escape Snape's notice and he shared a glance with Dumbledore. She took a long drink, brown eyes closing as though trying to shut them all out.

"Perhaps we might take a short intermission," Albus remarked, glancing towards Shacklebolt.

The minister seemed inclined to acquiesce to the request, but mutterings and rejections erupted from many council members, citing reasons why an adjournment would not be possible and how all the by-laws required that hearings be held in one continuous session and the inquisition into the war with Grindelwald had lasted three whole days. Eventually, Shacklebolt called everyone to order once more and announced that the hearing would continue, though he did turn apologetic eyes to the girl. Granger had kept her eyes closed the entire time, as though taking the opportunity for a quick kip while the council argued around her.

"Miss Granger," Broxbourne prompted. She opened her eyes, fixing him in a steely gaze and set her glass back down.

"We were convinced, based on Bellatrix' paranoia, that there was Horcrux in her vault at Gringotts. So, Harry decided that we should go in and retrieve it." She paused for a moment, seeming to collect herself before carrying on with a slight shake of her head. "We had a goblin with us, Griphook, that had escaped with us from Malfoy Manor and Harry tried to persuade him to help us break into Gringotts."

"We are all, I'm sure, familiar with the spectacular events surrounding your escape from the bank, Miss Granger," the wizard said. "But how did you convince the goblin to help you? They are not known for their eagerness to aid wizards without reciprocation."

"No, they're not," she replied evenly. "He wanted the Sword as payment, which Harry tentatively agreed to. And so I Polyjuiced myself as Bellatrix," she rushed on, before Broxbourne could prod her again. "When she was interrogating me at the Manor, one of her hairs fell on my person and I used that to assume her form and we managed to get past security at the bank and down into the vault."

"Splendid," the wizard said, leaning against his side table with arms crossed over his thin chest. "And was your assumption correct? Was there a Horcrux in the vault?"

"Yes, Helga Hufflepuff's Cup was there."

"And you destroyed it?"

"Yes," she replied without elaboration. The wizard didn't need to know the exact circumstances surrounding the destroying of the Cup and she had a strong desire to end this as quickly as possible.

"Where did you go next?"

"After we escaped, Harry saw something - in his mind - through the connection he shared with the Dark Lord. He thought Hogwarts was being attacked."

"You didn't believe him?" he asked carefully. The girl's amber eyes shot to him with a glare.

"I thought it might be a trick," she admitted, forcibly calming herself. "The same thing happened in fifth year; Harry thought he saw something, but it was a ruse."

"I see. And then?"

"It didn't matter," she said with a shrug. "It didn't matter whether it was a trick or not, just like it hadn't mattered in fifth year. If there was a chance that the castle was being attacked then obviously we had no choice but to go and help. So we did, we Apparated to Hogsmeade and made our way to the school."

"And it wasn't a trick."

"No, it most certainly was not," she confirmed icily, the horrors she'd witnessed seeming, for a moment, to filter through the cracks of her steely disposition.

"I realize this must be very difficult for you, Miss Granger," the wizard said, with a look which didn't quite make it to sympathy. The girl gave him a condescending smile, as though to say that _talking _about it was not the difficult part. "But we are nearing the home stretch as it were," he finished, gesturing for her to continue.

"The battle had already started when we arrived at the castle," she began tentatively, eyes down as she twirled a loose thread around her finger. "Spells were flying everywhere." She shook her head. "There was so much noise. Chaos, it was - just - chaos." She seemed to throw a slightly accusatory look to Dumbledore before looking down at her lap again. "We split up when we got in the school; I don't know where Harry went, but Ron and I went down to the ground floor and helped fortify the castle's defenses and wards. At some point, Harry came barreling down the center staircase shouting about Voldemort." Once again, Granger ignored the murmurings that accompanied the saying of the wizard's name. "So, Ron and I followed him outside and we ran to the boundaries of the Forbidden Forest and made our way to the Shrieking Shack."

Severus sat up in his seat at this, glancing over to Dumbledore who was engrossed in the girl's tale. Snape narrowed his black eyes as he watched her and waited to hear the rest.

"Voldemort had already left the Shack by the time we got there. Harry spoke briefly with Professor Snape -"

"Who was bleeding to death on the floor?" the wizard clarified, his eyes and those of the council members turning as one to Snape who simply glared back at the lot of them.

The girl kept her expressionless gaze on Broxbourne as she answered, "Yes, he'd been bitten by Nagini, Voldemort's snake. He said something to Harry, I didn't hear what," she added even as the wizard opened his mouth to ask. "Harry asked for vials which I Conjured for him. He took memories from the professor and said he had to go to Dumbledore's office, I assume for a Pensieve," she finished with a slight shake of her head.

"What happened then?"

"Ron said we should go back to the battle," she continued, eyes drifting down to her lap. "I told him to go ahead and that I would catch up."

"Why did you do that?"

She looked up at the wizard, biting her lower lip, looking uncertain for the first time since the hearing had begun and Snape felt his eyes narrow further at the girl. "I was trying to stop the bleeding."

"You were trying to save Professor Snape's life?" the wizard clarified.

"Yes," she admitted, eyes locked on Broxbourne, ignoring the murmurings of the council.

"Why would you do that?" he asked and Severus felt himself lean forward to hear the answer to the question that had been scratching at the back of his mind for days. "As far as you and your friends were concerned, Severus Snape was a traitor who had murdered your headmaster and was firm in his loyalty to the Dark Lord. Why would you choose to try and save him rather than rejoin your friends in battle?"

"I suppose wanting him to live so he could stand trial for his crimes would stretch the limits of plausibility?" she responded sarcastically, eyes going cold again as she looked at the wizard.

"Is that why you did it?" he asked, unfazed.

"No."

"Why then?"

She looked down at her hands for a moment, shaking her head slightly before returning her gaze to the wizard. "Griphook had mentioned that the Sword of Gryffindor that had been in Bellatrix' vault was a fake, which of course we already knew since we had the real one, but he said that a former teacher from Hogwarts had placed it there." She shook her head and lowered her eyes again before continuing, "I thought perhaps that teacher had been Professor Snape."

The council's murmurs increased at that, turning to one another and muttering as they pointed at Granger followed by Snape. Broxbourne smiled at the girl as he took several steps towards where she sat. "That seems like rather weak reasoning, Miss Granger," he said in a somewhat accusatory tone. "Why not some other teacher?"

She fixed the wizard in her cold gaze before her amber eyes took a turn about the room, boring into each row of council members. Her eyes returned to Broxbourne, mouth set in a grim line before she answered. "Dumbledore trusted Professor Snape."

"Professor Snape killed Dumbledore," the wizard countered. "Or so you believed at the time."

"Or so Harry believed," she corrected him. Severus felt himself lean forward once more.

"But not you?"

"No."

"May I ask why not?" he inquired with false solicitousness.

Granger's gaze rapidly turned to a look of pure loathing as she addressed the wizard. "Dumbledore was wrong about a lot of things," she began, ignoring the mutterings of the older council members who clearly still very much revered the headmaster.

"He made many mistakes and trusted people he shouldn't have, but the trust he had in Professor Snape seemed much stronger than most. He seemed to have unwavering confidence in the professor's loyalty." She gave the slightest of glances towards the wizards in question. "Perhaps he was holding something over Professor Snape's head which demanded that kind of allegiance, you'd have to ask them, but that, coupled with the help we'd been receiving through the year, compelled me to believe that perhaps there was more to it than we realized."

"I see," Broxbourne mused, tilting his head slightly as he regarded the girl.

"I'm fairly certain you don't," Granger replied, mimicking his action. Severus felt his lips twitch in amusement as he looked at her. "Nevertheless, it is the only explanation I can give for my actions."

"I think it will suffice, Miss Granger," Shacklebolt cut in with a small smile to the girl. "If you would proceed, Mr. Broxbourne," he said with a gesture to the wizard.

He seemed put out by the interruption but said nothing, merely turning back to the girl.

"Did you see Harry Potter die?" he asked.

Snape and McGonagall wore matching glares at the wizard's abrupt question, but the girl made absolutely no reaction.

"No, I didn't."

"Where were you when it happened?"

"On the grounds," she replied, nostrils flaring slightly and Snape's eyes narrowed, instincts telling him that a lie was in the offing.

"Please elaborate, Miss Granger," the wizard urged in a low tone.

"I did what I could for Professor Snape." There was that nostril flare again, Severus thought. "When I was returning to the battle, I must have been Stunned or fallen on something - I don't remember. I lost consciousness and when I came to and returned to the castle, it was over," she finished, fixing the wizard in her iron gaze although she was quite unable to hide the small pooling of tears in her eyes.

"And that was it?" he asked, watching her intently.

"Yes."

The slight wizard gave a slow nod of his head before turning to the rows of wizards. "If it please the Wizengamot, my questions have come to an end. If any council members have queries, I invite them to take this time to make them known."

The courtroom fell silent for a moment as the requisite time was allowed to pass. Finally, Kingsley nodded once more to Broxbourne.

"Splendid," he said with a smile and tug on his robes, clearly pleased that his questioning had been found so comprehensive. "Miss Granger," he continued, turning to the girl. "Thank you for your forthcoming and enlightening responses. If you have anything else you wish to add, you may do so now."

Granger said nothing, merely held the wizard's eye with a bland, somewhat bored expression on her face. Broxbourne seemed unnerved by the directness of her gaze and turned his back on her as he again allowed the requisite time to pass. Once it had, he gave a nod to Kingsley and moved back to his side table.

"Very well," Shacklebolt said. "Allow me to add my thanks, Miss Granger. I know this has been a difficult time for you and I'm sure we all appreciate the thoroughness of your answers today. Additionally, we are more than appreciative of your efforts in the war and I am sure that - when the time comes - you will be properly recognized for it."

The girl's expression hadn't changed throughout the minister's talk, but when he mentioned recognition, the slightest of sneers colored her features.

She seemed to force herself to bite out, "Thank you, Minister."

He gave a nod, seemingly missing or misinterpreting the look as he smiled down at her. "I call this hearing to a close," he intoned, bringing his gavel down on the podium.


	5. In Memoriam

**A/N Glad you enjoyed the previous chapter, I had a lot of fun writing it. I'm also glad you got and enjoyed the little Sound of Music reference. I went back and forth on whether to include it and whether it disrupted the solemnity of the proceedings. But I eventually decided that I liked having it there and I always enjoy my Hermione to be a bit prickly and snarky with Ministry officials, especially in a Post-war universe. I think that even if we went strictly by canon, she would have developed a disdain and near-contempt for bureaucracy and the Ministry in general and I don't agree with J.K. Rowling (**_**Gasp**_**) about her eventually working there... but that's just me :)**

**Also, a few people asked about some omissions; there was mention of not questioning Snape and Dumbledore, to which I'd like to point out Kingsley's opening statement, in which I indicated that a previous session had already been held to discuss their actions over the year. Also, a point was raised regarding Harry and Ron and what they did during the battle; it's not raised during the hearing since Hermione said that she hadn't witnessed it.**

**One more thing: It occurs to me that this story could probably - very accurately - be listed under the 'Angst' genre, but I instinctively shy away from that label. It feels a tad melodramatic to me, which is why I've opted for Hurt/Comfort/Romance. There's very clearly Hurt here :p hopefully, there will be some Comfort/Romance to come ;)**

**Okay, enough babbling from me :) Enjoy this chapter!**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: In Memoriam <strong>

The sky was mocking them; it was making a mockery of the entire day.

The morning had dawned bright and clear, not a cloud in sight, warm and balmy - perfect for a Quidditch game or a picnic or some other frivolity.

It was _not _an appropriate day for a mass funeral.

A section of Hogwarts' grounds had been cleared of debris and a large-scale, relatively tasteful memorial had been erected. It was a smooth, marble structure, shaped like a great force of wind with reliefs carved into it in the shape of various Patroni; there were dogs and hares, wolves and leopards, crows and horses. And standing tall and proud, seeming to burst forth from the gust of wind was a great stag, its ornate horns seeming to reach up into the sky. The names and birth dates of the deceased were etched around the base of the monument... too many names, the dates much too close together.

Hermione had only given the briefest glance to the memorial; she was standing by McGonagall, her entire body coiled as tightly as a spring, quite sure she was one word away from coming apart at the seams. It took all her energy to remain upright; and she worked to empty her mind of all thought, head tilted back as she frowned up at the sky.

She felt and heard witches and wizards gathering around her, members of the press, Ministry officials, family and friends of those who had participated in the battles. Various Order members and students, with all their myriad injuries, were helped over to the area, taking their seats in the cordoned off section set aside for them. Hermione probably should have been over there as well, but she had been led across the grounds by Minerva and had not managed to move from her side once they'd arrived at the edifice and so she ended up standing off to the side with the rest of Hogwarts' staff, relatively unnoticed, as they waited for the ceremony to begin.

She scanned the crowd, looking for a hint of red, but no Weasleys seemed to be in attendance. _They're not here_, she thought morosely; _of course, they're not here_. Hermione hadn't seen or spoken to any of them since before the battle and she was quite sure all they felt for her was an acute sense of loathing. She could completely understand it; after all, she loathed herself just as acutely. It seemed grossly unfair that they should lose so many of their children, practically _all _of them, while she was somehow spared. Hermione's mind kept throwing up images and recollections, flashbacks from the battle, moments where if she'd made a different choice, she might have saved one or more of them. If she'd stayed back at certain points or backed the twins at another instead of turning instinctively to help someone else. Her mind viciously tried to catalog how many deaths her choices had resulted in.

And Ron...

She could have stayed with Ron.

Severus stood at the end of the line of professors, black robes billowing in the breeze, as he sneered up at the monument; as though some fucking stone edifice would suffice in honoring those that had fought and died on these grounds not a month prior. It was practically an insult, he thought with a snarl as his black eyes wandered over the assembly and back across the line of teachers. He caught sight of the Granger girl standing by Minerva; she was staring up at the sky, features twisted in distaste as though it had personally offended her. Despite the warm and sunny day, she was wrapped up in a thick, much-too-large cardigan, her worn jeans loose on her stick-thin form. Someone had forced her mane into a plait down her back, though the breeze had pulled loose several thick curls that blew around her face as though in the midst of a tempest.

Shacklebolt began speaking, his low magically-enhanced voice ringing out over the quiet ground, but the girl didn't look to him. She remained staring up at the sky as though in a daze as the Minister went through his speech, filled with accolades, honors, words of comfort and others which were surely meant to inspire. The assembly drank up his words eagerly, seeming to thirst and yearn for any small bit of optimism and hope they could find. Severus though, could not rouse himself into feeling anything other than boredom... and perhaps the slightest involuntary interest in the tiny witch who could not take her big brown eyes off the sky.

_It should be raining_, Hermione thought idly, barely hearing Kingsley as he introduced Dumbledore who approached the podium to thundering applause of welcome from the assembly. She did lower her eyes then, staring dumbly at the audience, wondering at their collective sanity; Who clapped at a memorial?

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, friends and family," he said, his steady, commanding voice blanketing the assembly who sat riveted in their seats. "Thank you for joining us in this grave hour of remembrance. Our fight has been long and the price we've paid was much too high..."

Hermione found herself quickly tuning out his - no doubt, eloquent - speech as her eyes fell on the monument for a moment before seeming to lock onto it. From her position, she was able to pick out individual names as she stood there, her mind accurately identifying as many Patroni as it could despite her efforts to ignore the structure. Her eyes picked out Ron's terrier, going over its playful lines and fiercely loyal expression, before examining in detail every curve and angle of that massive stag; dragging her eyes forcefully from the reliefs, she ended up zeroing in on the names of her housemates, her eyes drinking them in one by one.

Hermione felt a sense of panic rise up within her, burning along the edges of that glorious numbness she'd been cocooned in; her heartbeat sped up, breathing growing heavier under the overbearing weight that had suddenly settled on her chest and she felt herself take several halting steps back. Her vision was narrowing and some part of her mind recognized the _'Flight or Fight' _instinct taking hold, but she didn't have the opportunity to investigate it further. She needed to leave.

The girl was moving; Severus watched her back up, her face ashen, small hands trembling, chest heaving as she took in great gulps of air. He continued watching her as she backed away, unnoticed, until she eventually turned around and started running down the slopes towards the outer boundaries of the school. He turned his face back to the headmaster, his eyes scanning the teachers who did not seem to notice the girl leaving and felt a twinge of envy that she'd managed to escape this insipid affair.

He watched the headmaster, only half-listening for another few moments before he also began backing away surreptitiously; no one was paying him any mind - all eyes locked on the headmaster and the structure he was gesturing to - and Severus felt himself turn on his heels, his feet carrying him down the gentle hills towards the gates.

He walked through the low, overgrown shrubbery, the undergrowth having a slightly neglected look to it. He stopped at various intervals, pocketing plants, flowers and seeds for possible potions as he followed the narrow trail down to the little-used side gates of the school. Finally, the iron bars came into view and Severus paused as he saw the girl. She was standing at the gate, fingers wrapped tightly around the bars, forehead leaning against them; he could still see the heaving motion of her back as she struggled to regain her breath. He maintained his position; if the witch was crying (which he hoped she was), he would leave her be.

She wasn't. Her breathing was ragged and labored, knuckles white from the force with which she gripped the bars before her, but she did not seem to be weeping and Severus felt his feet move him down the last stretch of trail and to her side.

"You are missing the ceremony, Miss Granger," he commented, his tone low and rough, demanding her attention.

She gave a start, gasping as she turned her pale face towards him; her eyes were wide in her face and from his proximity, Severus could see the dark circles beneath them, the pinch between her brows. Her face held a hollow yet horrified visage and he was thoroughly unnerved by it. She looked at him for a moment, seeming confused by his presence before turning back to the gate without responding.

"Miss Granger," he said again. "Come; return to the school."

She took a deep shuddering breath, pressing her forehead against the iron. "I can't," she whispered, her head beginning to shake rapidly from side to side in emphasis.

He nodded, watching her agitation grow, but not knowing how to curtail it. "I will call Madam Pomfrey," he finally said, for want of an alternative.

"No!" she cried, turning to him, but maintaining her grip on the bars. "I'm fine. Don't. Just... just leave me be. I'll be fine." She seemed to force herself into calming down as she said it, her fingers clenching and unclenching as she took deep breath after deep breath, to the point where he was quite sure she would hyperventilate.

"Very well," he replied after a moment, standing quietly and following her gaze out the gates as she stared at the winding trail that led - eventually - to the Express.

He didn't leave though. He found himself standing there, without a word, inspecting the plants and flowers he'd picked while casting the occasional glance at the girl to ensure she remained upright. She took no more notice of him, seeming to focus on her breathing and composure for the longest time, no sound coming from her aside from the sporadic shuddering breath.

Eventually, when the sun was well on its way down for day and Severus could not say how long they'd been standing there, she turned to him with wide eyes and curious features. Tears shimmered in those brown orbs, but her cheeks remained entirely dry. He found himself studying her, wondering why she wasn't grieving properly; was she sobbing during the night and so had no tears left for the day? It didn't make sense; didn't young females have an endless supply of tears? She ought to be spending the majority of her time weeping uncontrollably.

She said nothing, merely giving him a slight nod that he couldn't interpret before turning and slowly making her way back up the trail towards the castle.

He watched her for a time, until she had gone over the first slope before giving a shake to his head and following.


	6. The Waters of Lethe that Numb the Heart

**A/N Okay, Chapters 1 and 3 of "Purpose, Part II" are pretty much done... but all I have for Chapter 2 is "Trio whinging and arguing"... So, stay tuned :p**

**Also, somehow the last two chapters of the story are also completely done :p ... It's a patchy process. ;)**

**As for this story, once we get to Chapter 9 we'll have caught up with my writing... Like I said, I have a vague idea of where I'm going with this, but I'm feeling my way through it a lot more than I did with any of my other stories. So to be honest, I still don't know exactly what's going on or how it will end up. I'm just following Hermione and Severus and letting them go wherever feels most natural...**

**We'll see how it goes. Thanks for your support. Also, you guys dropping theories and opinions would be most helpful as I might incorporate them at some point, with full credit, of course ;)**

**P.S. Title is from: _"Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget you." - Ovid, 'The Poems of Exile'_  
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><p><em><strong>Warnings: Passing mention of self-harm here. Avoid if it's a trigger for you.<strong>_

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 6: The Waters of Lethe that Numb the Heart<strong>

Severus spent the following days holed up in his personal laboratory, trying to return the hospital's stores to where they had been when last he'd been at the helm and using any free time to putter around his lab, experimenting and tinkering with various potions ideas that he'd jotted down over the years. Dumbledore had casually suggested he stay on at the castle to assist in the restoration and healing of those who remained in residence through the summer, although he'd clearly assured Severus of his complete understanding should he wish to leave the school.

The newly-reinstated headmaster, who looked wearier by the day, had held Severus hostage for three hours in his office one evening, telling him again and again how proud he was of his spy's performance through the past year and how Severus had more than earned the right to vacate the castle and enjoy his freedom. The potions master would consistently interrupt and derail the headmaster's effusive praise by asking questions regarding his and the children's activities over the year, trying to fill in the blanks of his patchy knowledge.

Dumbledore worked his way backwards; he began with how he'd Apparated to the school as soon as he'd registered Severus' Patronus message, arriving at the boundaries and making his way towards the castle under a strong Disillusionment Charm. He spoke of how he'd aided the students and Order members as best he could, his eyes turning downcast when he admitted that his priority had been to find Harry, as though such a confession would shock Snape. The potions master did wonder what sort of entrance the headmaster had made, not having seen him at all on the grounds. Dumbledore told him of how he'd remained Disillusioned the entire time, not wishing to startle anyone and unintentionally give a Death Eater a clear shot at them. He'd stealthily protected their side as best he could as he'd made his way across the grounds to the boy; the old wizard practically broke down - his quiet tears making Severus more than a little uncomfortable - as he told him of how he hadn't reached Potter in time, how as he was moving towards the boy and Voldemort, they'd each cast the _Avada _at the other, dropping to the ground almost simultaneously in less time than it took to draw a breath.

The old wizard blamed himself; that much was obvious to Severus. Even if he never came out and said it, Snape could see that the headmaster wondered whether he could have done anything differently, whether a different choice at some point might have resulted in Potter's survival.

The entire conversation made Severus decidedly uneasy and he would prod the headmaster into pushing further back, asking for details of that year where they'd only had sporadic contact.

Dumbledore told him of how he'd had only intermittent - and anonymous - contact with the trio as they joined his search for the Horcruxes, how they'd been left fairly to their own devices aside from the small clues and hints he was able to provide them with. Severus was astounded at the degree of autonomy the three had been entrusted with, a freedom to act as they saw fit without seeking approval or assurances. It was an alien notion to Severus who'd always taken his cues from the headmaster; even over the past year when they'd been unable to fully communicate, Dumbledore had still found ways to command his spy to whatever end he'd desired.

How terrifying it must have been for them; the thought invaded his mind, unbidden, as he'd quietly sipped his tea and gazed out the headmaster's high window. He'd always railed and raged about the old wizard's decisions and strategies, but they were always _his _decisions, _his _plans, and all Severus had to do was execute. He never had to wonder whether he was doing the right thing or not; he would - of course - internally debate the ethics of this or that action, but he never had to wonder whether they were _right_. It was inconsequential; he had given an oath of obedience to the headmaster, a long-standing vow to execute any and all commands that came to him in regards to the war. That vow - while abhorrent - had freed him and his conscience from assuming any guilt for the actions he took on Dumbledore's behalf.

Perhaps he had sold his soul to the devil... a lavender-garbed, lemon drop popping devil, but a devil nonetheless. However, the fact remained that the oath he'd taken was always - eventually - seen as a comfort. And anything he did - no matter how distasteful - could always be traced back to that oath and, ultimately, laid at the headmaster's feet.

What must it have been like for the three Gryffindors, making plans and executing them with nothing but their own convictions and beliefs to rely on?

Eventually, he'd surrendered himself - once again - to Dumbledore's wishes, promising to stay on hand at the castle at least until the restoration was complete, even giving a tentative agreement to re-assume his post as potions master should a suitable replacement not be found in time for the coming school term. Although he did make it quite clear that he desired an end to his teaching career as soon as possible.

He had never wanted to be a teacher, having taken up the post simply because it had been convenient to both of his masters. But now, he intended to disappear from the wizarding world as soon as was physically possible. He wondered at his reasoning, wondered why he didn't just leave now and to hell with the rest of it. Dumbledore might be disappointed in his choice, but so-bloody-what? By the old wizard's own testament, Severus had more than earned the right to live the remainder of his miserable life as he so chose. If he wanted to disappear to Spinner's End or some other refuge, leaving the castle and its inhabitants to fend for themselves, then he could do so with a crystal-clear conscience.

But it seemed that whenever he went to say such things, whenever he went to shrink up whatever meager belongings he still had with him, he always hesitated, the words dying in his throat, his wand refusing to cast the spells and he would stalk off with a sigh or grumble of discontent, vowing to do it the next day.

Only he never did...

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><p>The days had taken on an odorless, tasteless quality - drab and gray. Hermione spent all her time in the room in Ravenclaw tower that she'd been given, lying on the bed, or in the bathtub, staring at the ceiling. She never ventured to the Great Hall, where the staff that was remaining on hand at the school continued to take their meals; she was never hungry anymore and was constantly surprised when a house-elf showed up with food. The creatures would not vacate her presence until she ate and so she forced herself to nibble on potatoes, toast and bites of chicken until she could banish them from her presence.<p>

Minerva McGonagall would show up at her room at least once a day; Hermione never knew why, as the old witch hardly said a word to her beyond empty words of comfort and irritating platitudes. She suspected her former Head of House was worried that Hermione might harm herself in some way. Truth be told, she'd thought about it... several times. The pressure and tension inside her would mount so high that it seemed utterly reasonable that slicing her skin open with a well-placed spell might be the only way of relieving it. When those self-destructive thoughts came upon her - usually in the late afternoon or middle of the night - she would silently make her way out of the tower, launch herself from the school gates and go running around the Black Lake.

She'd never been an athlete, but she found that the only way to drive out those thoughts was if she was too busy trying not to collapse as she ran in slow circles around the water.

It seemed odd to her that she remained at the castle; some still-functioning part of her brain told her that she should have left by now, that there was no point in staying somewhere that held such dangerous memories. But then again, she never remembered; even as she moved through the familiar castle and its grounds, each stone, tree, corridor and table surely holding within it dozens of memories, her mind never drifted to _them_. She never thought of the boys or Remus or the Weasleys; it was as if those thoughts were locked up somewhere inaccessible to her.

She didn't think about how alone she was now, how she - quite literally - did not have a friend in the world. She didn't think about what she would do or where she would go now that the official business was taken care of and she was, somehow, expected to move on.

Perhaps one day this numbness and those locked-up recollections would come back to bite her, but for the time being, she was more than grateful for the overwhelming indifference she felt towards her surroundings and the people that populated it.

There were no thoughts, no memories - just this ebbing and flowing of tension that only a brisk run would drive away.

Nobody ever approached her; in the weeks following the battle and that fucking hearing at the Ministry, the only ones to speak with her were McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey - who was supplying her with a steady dose of Dreamless Sleep and Fortifying potions. The one time the headmaster - at least she thought he was headmaster again - came to see her, he'd stayed all of ten minutes. Dumbledore tried to explain things to her, but she had been so caught up in her own thoughts, staring at the wizard - whose death was one of the only things she'd been sure of - as though a troupe of house-elves were doing a Riverdance on his head, that he'd eventually given up and left, promising to speak with her another time.

It didn't matter.

None of it mattered.

That was one of the first thoughts she was consciously aware of. It was a thought that circled her mind every minute of every day as though it were a vulture in the sky just waiting to pick her mind clean whenever it eventually collapsed in on itself.


	7. Running

**A/N Okay, so this is a reiteration of a previous plea, but I would love, LOVE, to have something of my stories immortalized as a drawing or sketch of some kind. I have several scenes in my head which were powerful for me that I would be more than willing to share with any artists out there who are interested. Conversely, I would be more than appreciative of a sketch of a scene or piece of imagery which touched you in some way. I've no money, but there's virtual cookies and House points for you ;)  
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**Okay, shameless begging done :p **

**Story will start moving along in the coming chapter. Your thoughts are, as always, greatly appreciated :) **

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: Running<strong>

"And what of Miss Granger?" the old witch asked, leaning forward to pour herself a cup of tea.

"What of her, Minerva?" Dumbledore replied with a sigh, shuffling some parchment on his desk.

Another staff meeting had drawn to a close, the professors all filing out of the conference room as soon as it had been adjourned; the meetings had become regular occurrences, once or twice a week for the last fortnight or so. The Ministry was eager that the school should re-open for the coming term, insisting that a return to normalcy as soon as possible was in the best interest of all concerned. Never mind that roughly half of the upperclassmen would not be returning, too scarred by the battle to recommence their education. Those that were entering fifth and sixth year seemed more or less willing to return while the younger years had been spared the battle, hidden away in the Room of Requirement with a member of staff as soon as the fighting had commenced, and so would be returning without absences.

The letters had been sent out to all in-coming first years, as was custom, and the Ministry was adamant that term should begin in September on schedule despite concerns communicated by the staff that perhaps delaying resumption for a month or so would enable them to ready the school more fully.

It was a constant back and forth with officials... and it was a back and forth that Dumbledore was losing.

Minerva had counseled the old, war-weary wizard to abstain from reassuming his post as headmaster, assuring him that she'd had the situation well under control in his absence, but he was insistent on returning to his duty and Minerva was disinclined to argue with him. He was drained, quiet and reserved; the ever-present twinkle had completely vacated those bright blue eyes of his. And more often than not, his countenance was heavy, lined and sorrowful. She would often catch him gazing out at the grounds, pensively stroking his long beard, or wandering the Quidditch pitch with his eyes tipped towards the heavens. She never interrupted him during these periods of solitude, assuming that her old friend and colleague was simply grieving for the losses their side had sustained while perhaps ruminating over the choices he'd made.

They all had their burdens to bear... their doubts and questions. There was nothing she could do to ease that for him... she could barely contain her own.

"What do you propose we do with her?" she asked, returning to the matter at hand.

"Has she expressed any desire or plans to you?"

"No, she hasn't. She remains exceedingly distraught, Albus. She doesn't eat, she doesn't talk to anyone; she just spends all her time in that Tower." She gave a morose shake of her head. "I worry for her."

"As do I," he replied, turning his kind blue eyes to the old witch. "Have you had any success locating extended family of hers who might be willing to take her in?"

"Nothing has come up yet; nothing through the Ministry anyway," she said with a slight sniff of annoyance. "I might have to resort to Muggle methods. I've asked her if there is anyone she could think of, a family friend even, but she very rarely responds to any questions that require more than a 'Yes or No' answer," she finished, shaking her head as she recalled the one-sided discussions she'd been having with the girl over the past month.

"And the Weasleys?" he asked carefully.

Minerva looked up at him, her eyes turning a shade sadder. "The Weasleys are inconsolable, Albus. I spoke with Arthur and he says that Molly and Ginerva never leave their beds, with Ginerva waking with nightmares each and every night while Molly sobs non-stop. Percival is convinced that he is somehow to blame, that if he'd arrived at the school earlier, he might have been able to help, might have been able to save them. And Arthur." She gave a small shrug. "He's just trying to hold them together... That poor, poor family," she finished with a shake of her head. "He never even mentioned Miss Granger during our conversation; they seem to have entirely forgotten about her and I am loath to add to their burdens at this time."

Dumbledore gave a slow answering nod, a somber and melancholy look on his face. "Then she will stay here for the time being, until she is well enough to see to her future."

The old witch nodded her head in agreement, taking another sip of her tea and following the headmaster's gaze as he looked out the window.

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><p>Severus walked silently down the hallway towards the library late one night; the grand room had been largely spared the destruction of the battle and Madam Pince was in the process of cataloging and adding to the library's contents. Earlier in the week, Slughorn had sent a house-elf to retrieve his things from the dungeon chambers, relieving Severus from the potions texts he'd been flipping through in his down time. He'd not yet had the opportunity to restock the empty shelves with the tomes he'd spirited away to his home before vacating the castle and so he opted to try and find something mildly interesting from the library to read before turning in.<p>

As he walked, he thought on how subdued the school's inhabitants had become over the last few weeks; the headmaster seemed terribly exhausted and was rarely seen, McGonagall spent most of her time with the headmaster and the rest of it overseeing the restoration while the remaining teachers helped wherever they could. Severus shied away from the persistently insufferable attention of the other professors and opted to spend any time when he wasn't brewing outside helping Hagrid in the restoration of the grounds. At least the half-giant knew enough not to yammer incessantly in Severus' ear.

The staff meetings had become nearly unbearable; Albus would go over plans for the new term while the professors interjected with questions about curriculum changes and allowances for 'troubled students' that had fought in the battle. Severus was distinctly uninterested in the entirety of it and would spend the meetings staring out the window at the grounds while they all talked around him.

He felt restless; he felt a severe restlessness which was - somehow - coupled with an unyielding sense of apathy. He didn't care about any of it, not the school, or the incoming students or their 'mental well-being'. He had vowed to oversee his classes, teaching the same lessons he'd taught for the last twenty years in the same way he'd taught them. There would be no leniency, no allowances, and if the students didn't like it, they could bloody-well vacate the room. Consequently, he could not see the point for these torturous meetings of theirs.

It occurred to him that he was, perhaps, not in the best mental state to be overseeing a class of young and impressionable children... But if the Ministry was unwilling to listen to reason and delay the re-opening of the school, then they would simply have to reap what they'd sowed.

A flicker of movement suddenly caught his eye and his stride faltered as he looked out the third floor window.

It was the girl. She was running again.

He'd seen her at various times over the last few weeks, mainly when he was out on the grounds, but occasionally as he walked the halls of the school. At first he'd been mildly relieved, thinking that the fresh air and movement could only be healthy for her rather than remaining caged up in that tower. But now... now he wasn't so sure.

He paused and drew closer to the windowpane to watch her slow, methodical circles around the Black Lake.

She didn't seem to be healing or coping in any way. She remained frighteningly thin; a small, wispy creature who seemed likely to fall over with the slightest breeze. Her eyes - even from a distance - seemed much too large for her pinched and gaunt face. And that abominable mane of hers - while clean - remained tangled and knotted around her head.

No, she clearly wasn't coping at all and Severus was unsure what - if anything - he should do about it.

The Weasleys had not returned to the castle, nor - to the best of his knowledge - had they made any type of contact with the girl that they'd presumably taken in. He wondered if Dumbledore or McGonagall had made provisions for her; were they allowing her to stay at the school indefinitely? Would she be joining the seventh years in September, or perhaps taking some kind of independent study?

His dark brows furrowed as he watched her make slow circles around the great expanse of water, the Giant Squid intermittently lapping at the shores as though trying to catch her attention. Why should he care what provisions, if any, had been made for the girl? He'd sworn to himself that she was no longer his responsibility, none of them were. What did he care how she was grieving? _whether _she was grieving? It was no longer his concern. There was an entire castle of highly sympathetic witches and wizards who were more than willing to coddle the Gryffindor as much as she required. She was no longer his responsibility and he would not allow any guilt or sense of debt waylay him into caring about her fate.

His days of repaying debts and wallowing in guilt were over, he thought with a resolute nod. The girl had not died as a result of whatever she'd done for him that night, and consequently, there was nothing for him to repay. And there was certainly nothing he could do about this mourning of hers.

It was no longer his responsibility.

He gave another determined nod of his head, turned on his heels and continued on his way.


	8. The Winters of Your Grief

**A/N Last chapter was a bit of a downer, but the story will begin moving along now :) Hope you stick with me as we see where this goes. **

**Enjoy :) **

**P.S. Title is from Khalil Gibran's The Prophet _'And you would watch with serenity through **the winters of your grief**.'_  
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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 8: The Winters of Your Grief<br>**

As the days and weeks dragged on, Minerva McGonagall applied herself most ardently to the task of drawing Hermione out of her grief. She spent longer and longer periods in the girl's room, chatting about nothing, prodding her to clean her plate or simply sitting quietly with her as they took their afternoon tea. The witch tried to coax her into speaking about her emotions, tried to encourage her to share in the castle's collective mourning, suggesting that she partake in the communal meals or help with the restorations going on in the school. Hermione said very little in response, simply nodding along indulgently and giving false promises that she'd join in at some point.

McGonagall could always tell when her former student was itching for her to vacate her presence; she would stare out of her high tower window with a wistful expression on her sad face, her knees jiggling nervously as though her feet were desperate to launch her from the room. Whenever these signs appeared, Minerva would vanish the tea set with a small sigh, extend the customary invitation to dinner in the Great Hall and take her leave. And as she was on her way back to her own chambers, she would always catch sight of the little Gryffindor running across the grounds in the direction of the lake, long curls flapping madly behind her as she barreled down the steps and slopes.

It made McGonagall wonder if she was doing more harm than good.

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><p>One evening, sometime in late August Hermione supposed it was, she made her way through the courtyard and back through the school's main doors. She was panting heavily, having just come back from an extended run around the lake, and desired nothing more than a long bath and even longer sleep. Keeping her head down as she walked into the main corridor, Hermione gave an internal groan when she heard Professor Flitwick's soft voice calling to her. Setting her mouth in a straight line, she turned to the diminutive teacher, hand to her sternum as she continued struggling to return her breathing to a normal pace.<p>

"How are you, my dear?" he said, wincing slightly as the words left him and giving her an apologetic look.

"I'm fine, professor," she replied in a slightly breathless tone, giving no reaction to his obvious discomfort. "Yourself?"

"Oh, just fine, dear, just fine," he responded with a small smile. She gave a brief nod to that and turned back towards the corridor.

"Miss Granger," he called again. Hermione paused and turned on her heels to face him again. "Perhaps you would join us for supper," he continued, gesturing to the Great Hall behind him.

"I shouldn't," she replied instinctively. "I'm not quite fit for company," she added, gesturing to the sweat and grime she was coated in.

The professor's smile widened and he flicked his wand her way, casting a quick but thorough series of Cleansing and Freshening Charms that promptly tidied her from head to toe. Looking pleased with his work, he gave her another broad smile and gestured again to the dining hall.

She closed her eyes and emitted a shaky sigh, hearing him shift uncertainly on his feet before her, clearly fearing that he'd offended her. _May as well get it over with_, she thought resignedly; opening her eyes again, she gave another short nod and followed the once-again-beaming Charms professor into the room.

Hermione struggled to control her breathing as she approached the single long table running the length of the Hall. The dining room was typically reduced to one table during holidays and the long summer months, the House tables magically stored away in some section of the castle. During such times, any students remaining at the school were invited to join their professors in seeing how many awkward meals they could all sit through during the time period involved. Hermione had successfully avoided the affairs, blissfully allowed to remain in her tower room and not partake; but given McGonagall's increasing hints and Professor Flitwick's insistence, clearly her days of avoidance were coming to a forced end.

All the castle's residents were already gathered around the table; Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were towards one end and each gave her a kind and welcoming smile as they saw her approach. Hermione noticed - somewhat uncomfortably - that she was the only 'student' in the room. She saw Sprout and Pomfrey deep in discussion and was quite sure they hadn't noticed her. Madam Pince was quietly going over some parchment laid out before her while she nibbled on her salad. Hooch was attempting to prod Professor Snape into conversation, though seemingly without much success, Hermione noted as the dark wizard did not even lift his eyes from the plate before him.

Hagrid was at the end of the table closest to her and turned her way upon spotting her on Professor Flitwick's heels.

"Hello, Hermione!" he called out, his gruff voice echoing loudly in the hall.

She felt herself flinch unconsciously and came to an abrupt stop, her eyes widening and she was sure she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Shaking herself minutely, she forced herself to keep walking, giving the half-giant what she hoped was a smile. He stood up at her approach and lifted her into an enormous bear hug, seeming to swallow her whole and she felt herself relax infinitesimally into the kind man's embrace. He placed her gently back on the ground and when he moved to retake his seat, she saw that every head at the table had turned to her, watching her with careful eyes.

"Hello," she said quietly, moving to take a seat across from Hagrid and by Professor Flitwick.

"Lovely of you to join us, dear," Madam Pince said to her with an encouraging smile.

Hermione nodded her way in acknowledgement as she sat down. She caught Professor Snape's bottomless black eyes as they seemed to latch onto her and found herself momentarily ensnared by them as they trailed over her features and down what could be seen of her form as though looking for some malady or lingering ailment. They eventually moved back up to her face, remaining locked on her eyes for another moment; but the professor's expression remained utterly inscrutable and Hermione could not tell whether it was concern, resentment or anger that she saw there. Giving another shake of her head, she looked down at the plate that had appeared before her, picking up her fork and concentrating on eating.

The various conversations and discussions continued around her, both Hagrid and Professor Flitwick allowing Hermione to eat without engaging her in their discourse as they discussed Charms-work to be done on the castle's ramparts.

She should have known it was too good to last.

As Hermione was cutting her chicken into tiny squares that she may or may not decide to subsequently eat, she heard Madam Pomfrey speak her name. Looking up at the matron, her cutting action paused as she waited for the Mediwitch to continue.

"Only I was told you've inherited Grimmauld Place," she was saying, but Hermione couldn't hear anything over the deafening roar that erupted in her ears at the words 'Grimmauld Place'. She must have had a confused look on her face as Pomfrey turned an inquisitive glance to the headmaster.

The old wizard cleared his throat, drawing Hermione's eyes to him. She saw that McGonagall and Snape held identical glares on their faces as they sneered at the Mediwitch.

"It seems," Dumbledore began, "that Harry has named you as his heir and, consequently, Grimmauld Place and all it contains are now yours."

She felt herself nod slowly in acknowledgement at the statement, but her eyes lowered to the plate before her and she began pushing the chicken around its gravy sauce in a swirly pattern. That panic, that ghastly panic was rising up within her again; she could feel it, bubbling up in her gut, compelling her to vomit up whatever meager bites she'd taken thus far. She couldn't tamp it down; it was blurring her vision, clouding her thoughts and causing her heart to beat furiously against her chest wall until she was quite sure everyone in the room could hear it.

And yet somehow, the Mediwitch was talking again.

"Only it would make a lovely rehabilitation center for those wounded during the war," she carried on, quite oblivious to the raging panic which was rapidly engulfing Hermione. "Harry would have loved that, don't you think?"

"_Poppy!_" McGonagall hissed, jerking her head at the girl whose chest was beginning to heave quite visibly.

The hissing at the other end of the table seemed to snap Hermione out of it and she lifted her eyes again to see them all staring her with various expressions on their faces - worry, sadness, indignation on her behalf and that - apathy? - on Snape's stern features.

She could not contain her heavy breathing; she was going to vomit or scream or make some other embarrassing reaction before this unholy tension in her could be released and without forethought, Hermione heard her fork clatter noisily against the plate as she dropped it. Flinching at the sound, she shot to her feet, mumbled an incoherent apology and sprinted out the door.

"_Honestly, Poppy!_" She heard Professor McGonagall admonish as she was nearing the door. "Have you no sense at all?"

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><p>He found her, once again, standing at the school gates.<p>

Severus had finished his meal, assiduously ignoring Minerva's thorough dressing down of the Mediwitch - despite agreeing with every word she'd said. He remained quiet when a debate kicked up as to whether someone should go after the Gryffindor, to make sure she was alright. He kept his head down through it all, dismissing their presence entirely and telling himself he didn't care where the girl had run off to or how upset she was by what had been said.

But upon finishing supper, Severus felt his feet unaccountably lead him down the main corridor instead of the dungeons. He strode out the massive front doors, through the silent courtyard and across the school grounds. He could not explain his interest in the little witch; he could not fathom why he - who had seen so much evil and destruction and grief - should be so caught up in her mourning, no matter how peculiar it seemed.

There was no reason for it, no explanation, and yet here he was, taking sharp strides down the rolling hills of Hogwarts towards that side gate, instinctively feeling that it was where Granger had run off to.

He wasn't sure whether the fact that he'd been right pleased him or not.

She was standing in the same place, in the same position, he'd seen her in on the day of the memorial. Her thin shoulders were bunched up towards her ears, whether from cold or tension, he couldn't tell. Her small fingers gripped the bars tightly, elbows locked at her sides; and her little frame trembled almost violently as she stood there, those tangles of curls whipping around her head furiously in the brisk Northern wind.

"Miss Granger," he called to her, not quite knowing what he would say.

She turned her face towards him, her cheeks dry, tears pooling heavily in those large, cinnamon eyes and he wondered - again - why they refused to fall. The girl held that same curious look on her features that she'd had that day as well, as though she couldn't account for his presence... understandable since he himself could not explain it.

When he said nothing more, she turned her face back to the bars, leaning her forehead against the iron and taking a deep steadying breath.

"Poppy was insensitive." He heard himself say; he released an involuntary snort. "Although clearly I am not one to judge sensitivity... or lack thereof."

He watched her profile, catching a minute quirk of her lips, but not knowing what to make of it.

A part of Hermione wondered with half a measure of curiosity at the professor's motives; what was he doing? He had never betrayed any feeling towards her other than contempt and irritation. Was he attempting to console her? Why would he do such a thing? He didn't care for her; he was the only one in this castle who didn't patronize her or ply her with pointless platitudes and meaningless words.

He pitied her; that must be it. He pitied her as every other person in the school did.

She didn't know what to do. She, who'd always - _always_ - had an answer to everything. She was perfectly able to analyze the situation; she knew where the problem was, could feel herself being dragged lower and lower and she desperately wanted out of it. But that's where her vaulted intellect failed her. She just didn't know what to do, where to go from here.

Severus didn't know what else to say in response to her continued silence. He really was no good at this; what could he tell her? Nothing he had to say would make the slightest bit of difference, nothing would make it better or lessen the pain in any way, shape or form. _Why was he even here? _His presence was never a comfort to anyone; why would he ever think that it might be a comfort to her?

He drew himself up to his full height, his voice turning imperious and commanding as he said, "The weather is turning sickly, Miss Granger. Return to the castle."

Not bothering to wait for a response from the girl, he spun on his heels and let his long, quick strides take him back up to the school, cursing his foolishness the entire way.

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><p><strong>Coming Up: Trip down memory lane for Severus, Hermione finds a way forward and the couple finds each other.<strong>


	9. Folded

**A/N Hard at work on Purpose II :) Chapter 1 and 3 are finished; Chapter two is 3/4 done and I hope to get moving on 4 and 5 soon. :D **

**I have a chapter after this one on this story and then... bits and pieces that I'm trying to bridge together :/**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 9: Folded<strong>

He didn't quite know why he was here.

Severus stood at the base of the Whomping Willow gazing up at its orange and red leaves blowing gently in the breeze; he'd stilled the tree with a heavy branch propped up against the knot in its trunk, standing back as the thrashing fell still. The slim, grey branches seemed to claw up into the sky, the opening at its base yawning widely in invitation. Giving a resolute shake to his head, he moved forward, ducking into the tree and walking steadily down that tunnel which he knew would lead him to the Shack.

He didn't know why he was going there or what purpose it would serve, but the idea had been gnawing at him for days; this incessant desire to return to that accursed place continued to assault him day and night. There was no logical reason why he should return; and yet, here he was, walking down this deserted and dusty tunnel towards the place where he'd nearly died that night.

Severus pulled himself up through the trapdoor in the floor of the Shack, grimacing in distaste, both at the grime covering him and the low groan the building emitted. Drawing himself up to his feet, he didn't linger, but moved immediately up the creaking steps towards that room on the second floor. Ignoring the sounds of the building as best he could, Severus ascended the flight of stairs quickly and silently pushed into the room.

Dust motes swirled gently in the beams of afternoon sunlight breaking through the filthy window panes. The room was as derelict as the last time he'd seen it and Severus felt his heart begin to palpitate as he took in the regrettably familiar surroundings. Swallowing his rising anxiety down, he forced himself to look about the chamber, which was quiet and still despite the slight swaying movement of the floor beneath his feet.

He looked over to the other side of the room. A dark red stain remained scorched into the floorboards. Of course no one would have come to clean the Shack; why should they? The full evidence of his struggle with that damnable snake littered that side of the room; the table he'd fallen onto remained broken and splinted on the floor by the large stain. He could still see the discarded, cracked vials of the potions the girl had used on him.

Stepping further into the room, Severus squatted down beside those bottles, picking them up one by one to read the labels, written in her neat no-nonsense script. He'd been aware - mostly - at the time of what she'd plied him with, but he examined them more closely, turning the cold vials over in his hands as he went over the events of that night again.

Potions. Endless rounds of potions were poured into him followed by a fairly large bezoar; he could still remember the feel of the stone lodged in his throat, and the momentary - irrational - panic he'd felt at the thought of choking to death before her small hands began massaging his neck, prodding the antidote down. There was Essence of Murtlap; yes, he could remember that, as well as Dittany being poured over the steaming wound that had ripped open his neck. The puncture marks had been so deep - so severe - he had practically _felt _his magic seeping out along with his blood.

The recollections always turned hazy at that point. Severus sniffed at the open necks of the potion vials, narrowing his dark eyes as he struggled to remember the spells she'd used after inundating him with potions and salves.

There had been standard healing spells; he remembered that because he'd mentally scoffed at the girl's sudden on-set idiocy at not realizing that those spells were less than useless for such injuries. She'd quickly abandoned them after one round though... and that's where his memory failed him. The potions and loss of blood had begun working on him by that point, edging him closer and closer to a blissful peace; whether it was the peace of death or simply slumber, he hadn't been able to discern at the time. He had hoped it was the former, but would have welcomed anything, anything which would have made that horrible burning pain in his nerves, that awful boiling of his blood, diminish in any way.

Now though, Severus dearly wished he had remained conscious. He was exceedingly curious as to what the girl had done. It surely was more than potions, salves and healing spells. She'd done more and he knew - _he knew _- she was lying about where she'd been when Potter died.

Standing up, wincing as his back and joints popped in protest, the potions master strode to one of the windows, gazing out into the forest beyond, but taking in none of the scenery. He rolled the vials back and forth across his large palm as he thought on that morning, when he'd woken from the deep slumber her ministrations had sent him off to.

He'd come to lying on this very floor, in that same position, he thought, glancing behind him at the stained ground. He'd woken to pain of gargantuan proportions. It had felt as though his mind were about to explode in its skull; the pain had drawn a flame of agony down his spinal cord, lighting his nerves on fire whenever he moved. And so he'd remained on the floor, rigid against the pain, for quite some time; he'd watched - from the corner of his eye - as the sky began to lighten, his pain gradually lessening as he watched the sun rise on that summer day. He did not move until the sun was well into the sky, warming his form as it came through the window and heated the decrepit Shack. After some time, he'd registered that the pain was nearly gone, having receded to a focused point behind his eyeballs while the flaming trail of his spine had dulled to a simmering ache. And his neck; his neck had been utterly numb. He hadn't been able to feel the puncture marks of that beast nor the accompanying agony. It had been completely dead.

At that point, he'd managed to slowly, clumsily, rise to his feet, standing with both hands braced against the wall, as he struggled to regain control of his body. His limbs had felt like dead weights hanging from his torso, but as he'd stood there, focusing on his breathing, this remarkable sense of strength - of vitality - had seemed to come to life in him. Slowly, the soothing glow had spread through his body, warming the now ice-cold blood in his veins and bringing a foreign energy rising up within him. He'd felt ... magic; a pure, untainted, quietly-powerful magic permeating his system, mingling with his own dormant, darker brand of energy.

Severus snapped out of his reverie, but was unable to prevent his mind from continuing to ruminate on that sensation; he'd forgotten it, the sense of combined magic had receded quickly upon his waking that morning, so quickly that his mind failed to fully even recognize it. He'd buried it in some distant part of his psyche. It had niggled at him though; in his chambers that first night, at the Ministry hearing, both times he'd wondered what the girl had truly done to save him.

She had done something.

Something extraordinary.

And he would figure it out... one way or another.

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><p>Severus kept his head down as he returned to the castle after emerging from the tree trunk and releasing it; he fingered the vials lining his pocket as he went over the sensation again and again, running through his store of knowledge, trying to figure out what could have resulted in such an outcome. Had it simply been the combination of potions, salves and spells that resulted in it? And if so, then was the depletion of the girl's magic simply a by-product of the massive effort she'd made on his behalf in addition to this overwhelming grief of hers? Was it truly as simple as that? His instincts told him it wasn't, insisted it was something more. It insisted that what he'd felt that morning was her magic mingling with his, bolstering it somehow.<p>

The idea sent an alien sensation through him and his steps faltered as a shock of undeniable arousal shuddered through him. His mind recoiled from the instinctive reaction his body had had at the thought of her magic mixing with his own.

He was _not _aroused by her; it was inconceivable... laughable even.

He was aroused by power; yes, that was it, he thought with a firm nod as he continued walking. Severus Snape had always been attracted to power, power in himself as well as others. Hadn't he always suffered the most powerful erections post-battle? It was a by-product of the magic coursing through his veins. It was natural; an embarrassing, but biological fact for wizards, and one which they became familiar with very early on. It did not mean he was attracted to whomever he was dueling or otherwise directing his magic at. It was simply an uncontrollable physical reaction to power.

... And the little witch was undeniably powerful. If that was in fact her magic that he'd felt that morning, then the Gryffindor was very powerful indeed. And it was that strength, the possibilities it embodied, which aroused him.

An ungainly thud sounded to his right and the potions master turned his face towards the Black Lake, rising over the slope he was on the other side of in order to investigate the noise.

As though his mind had conjured her, Severus grimaced as he took in the sight of Granger face down in the dirt by the side of the Lake, clearly having collapsed during one of her interminable runs. Giving a sigh of clear annoyance, Snape proceeded down the slope towards the water, his black robes billowing behind him.

He approached her, squatting down by her side and pushing that mane off her face to assess her better. She was unconscious, her face red and sweating, breathing heavy and labored as she lay there. Turning her over to her back, he ran a quick diagnostic spell over her which returned nothing but dehydration and exhaustion. He bit out a low expletive at the bothersome girl before pointing his ebony wand at her face and giving an audible, "_Renervate_."

She came awake with a shocked gasp, her chest still heaving as she struggled to regain her breath; she looked up at him with an expression of curiosity, brown eyes narrowing as she registered his presence.

Without a word, Snape stood up and pulled the girl to her feet, ignoring her semi-squeal of indignation at his treatment of her. He further ignored her protests as he began leading her back across the grounds and towards the school, relieved that she remained on her feet and he wasn't obliged to levitate her to the castle.

The potions master half-led, half-dragged her into the school, down to the dungeons, through the Potions classroom, past the office and into his chambers; she had given up her protests and remained docile as he led her into the room.

"Do not move. Do not touch anything," he warned with a sneer, depositing her on the settee before the fireplace.

She gave a small derisive sniff at that but said nothing as he moved through a door at the side of the room. She was quite sure her legs would not propel her forward even if she did wish to snoop, they felt like dead weights hanging off of her, the tendons burning, muscles cramping. But that wouldn't stop her from taking a glimpse around the chambers, she thought as she worked to calm her breathing. Hermione found her eye immediately drawn to the books lining his tall bookshelves, managing to pick out certain titles which elicited a small tremor of interest, the feeling utterly foreign to her as she considered trying to make it to the bookshelf without collapsing.

_Best not to risk it_, she thought as her gaze wandered to the other side of the room. On his large mahogany desk she saw an array of small paper animals, folded into elaborate shapes. She tilted her head curiously, eyes narrowing, as she regarded the cranes, ravens, snakes and various other animals strewn about the desktop.

It seemed an odd hobby for the potions master... Though she couldn't claim to know anything about the professor.

He returned, carting several vials in his palms; he seemed pleasantly surprised that she hadn't moved from where he had left her.

"You know Origami," she commented with a slight gesture to the desk. He glanced over to the tabletop and returned his face to her, a frown on his features. "I didn't touch anything," she added with a touch of indignation.

He stepped nearer to her, thrusting the potions her way and watching her as she took them. She opened one and sniffed at its contents, earning a small sound of disapproval from him as he watched her drink it down.

"Tell me, Miss Granger," he began, moving back and taking a seat in the large armchair by the settee. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

She said nothing, merely giving him a slightly disdainful glance before moving on to the second potion, which smelled like a Fortifying Drought.

"If you are," he continued, "this is a remarkably inefficient way of going about it." He crossed one long leg over the other and leveled his dark gaze at her. "Death by starvation, while certainly dramatic, is not the most effective method."

"What would you suggest then?" she asked sarcastically before downing the third and final potion, feeling the herbs and brews permeating her system, bringing with them a feeling of relief.

_What did he suggest? _Severus found he had no answer for the girl. It would be exceedingly cruel - even for him - to tell her to simply move on, let it go and carry on living. He also doubted very much that it would be a good idea to tell her that her present attitude was an insult to those that had died, that her friends had not fought and endured all that they had so she could languish and wallow in this murky grief of hers. Severus knew all too well that mourning such a loss could not be rushed; who was he to tell the girl how to grieve for her friends? her family? her _life_?

She was looking at him now; her big brown eyes seemed to see straight through him, her lips set in a facsimile of wry understanding, as though she were well aware that he would not be able to come up with a viable solution for her. He felt his features arrange themselves into his customary scowl, annoyed at being so apparently transparent to the little witch.

She leaned forward and deposited the empty vials on the coffee table before rising on unsteady legs. The witch gave another slightly curious glance at the menagerie of paper on his desk, nodded to him in thanks and turned towards the door. Upon turning she faltered slightly, bending at the waist and bringing a palm down on the armrest. Severus came to his feet, taking several steps forward and grasping her by the elbow.

"Sit," he commanded, pushing the girl back down onto the settee.

She grimaced at the jolt and looked up at him, saying, "I'm quite sure I've overstayed my welcome."

"Yes, well, be that as it may, Minerva would hex me vociferously if I allowed you to collapse in the hallway," he replied with a sneer, turning his back on the girl and wandering towards his desk. "You will stay here until the potions have worked and you are able to make it to the door unassisted."

The witch gave a huff but said nothing, merely leaning back on the plush cushions and folding her arms over her chest. He could feel her eyes on him as he picked up the paper monkey he'd been working on; he folded one of his creases back over, drawing his thumb and forefinger across the line to smooth the edges before folding it back, feeling that same soothing emotion come over him as it always did when he was indulging in the act. He stood there for several moments, facing the window as he folded and creased, peeled and smoothed the paper back and forth until it began to assume the desired shape.

"Who taught you how to do that?" Her soft voice snaked across the quiet room to him.

He considered not answering her, simply ignoring her until she was well enough to leave him to his solitude. He folded another crease over, hesitating for a moment before replying, "No one."

"Oh," she replied gently. "Well, you're very good."

He had nothing to say to that, unfamiliar with accepting compliments, and so merely nodded his head, back still to the girl as he folded and pinched the final features into shape. He replaced the now completed monkey on the desktop and picked up a new square bit of plain paper, folding it over and pressing down a center crease.

"Could you show me?"

Severus gave no reaction other than to pick up another piece of paper, turn and walk over to where the girl sat. He wordlessly handed her the scrap before retreating to his armchair. She rubbed her small fingers against the paper, measuring its light and airy feel, and turned her full attention to him, reminding him eerily of the little girl he'd taught for nearly seven years.

He coughed to clear his throat, folding his crease back out until he was at square one. "The easiest is a plain flapping bird," he stated, demonstrating the primary folds.

He creased the paper twice on the diagonal and once across, showing it to the girl from his angle, smoothing and pressing down the folds and urging her to make straight edges. That was easy enough for her to do and he followed quickly with folding in the center crease, bringing the two sides inward and folding down the top and bottom to come out with a triangle. The girl struggled momentarily with this, unable to coax her sides to folding inward, and he undid his crease and repeated the movement twice more before she was able to tuck it in properly. He carefully walked her through the process of folding back the wings and forming the tail, leaning over slightly into her space to show her the proper placement so both sides lined up. She followed along, her large eyes flicking back and forth between her hands and his as she followed his instructions. She had such a look of fierce concentration on her face, reminding him again of the over-eager young Gryffindor he had taught for so many years.

She called to him softly, breaking him from those thoughts, as she showed him her progress; giving a nod, he indicated the shadow crease that had appeared along one edge, showing her how to fold it upwards and urging her to press tightly on the resultant crease. This was followed by an increasingly elaborate demonstration of the reverse fold, with Severus walking the girl through the motions four times before she was finally able to duplicate it; he found himself growing amused at her heightening annoyance as she huffed and scowled at her paper. When she'd finally managed the movement properly, he quickly showed her the opening, folding and pinching for the bird's head, which she managed to get on the first try.

He pinched the bird's neck between thumb and forefinger and pulled on its tail, causing the wings to flap up and down rapidly. The girl mimicked his movements, a simple smile stretching her face as she watched the wings of her own bird flap slowly. Severus felt an uncomfortable twinge somewhere in his chest at the quiet contentedness she exhibited at such simple provocation.

"You still need to line up the edges properly," he commented, clearing his throat with a cough, "so there's no overlap."

She gave a nod, still pulling carefully on the thing's tail, still with that absurdly content smile on her face. She turned those eyes to him then and he could see that they were slightly lighter than they'd been when she'd entered the room.

"Thank you," she said, her voice genuine and kind.

He merely inclined his head in reply, watching as she rose from her seat, steady on her feet this time and moved towards the door, still carefully fingering and smoothing the creases of the bird as she let herself out.


	10. Its Heart may Stand in the Sun

**A/N I'm glad you guys were receptive to the Origami idea as I was worried it might come off as too OOC. I'm an amateur (extremely amateur) origami-st (?); seriously, I can do like three shapes and that's it. But as I was - unsuccessfully - attempting to do a flapping dragon the other day, I thought to myself 'Huh, this is something Snape would be good at.' It's a solitary activity, requires a great deal of patience and you need to be good with your hands (which my Snape always is *wink wink* *nudge nudge*) So I just thought I'd use it. :)**

**In other news, I have a beta! Many, many thanks to the lovely felena1971 for taking on beta duties for this story. She has already made wonderful contributions, catching two syntax goofs I made in addition to making awesome suggestions for the coming chapter. As luck would have it, she's also an origami enthusiast, which is just the icing on the cake! Updates might slow down as we go back and forth, but it is all in service of the story :)**

**P.S. Title from Khalil Gibran's The Prophet **_**'Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.'**_

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 10: Its Heart may Stand in the Sun<strong>

One early morning found Hermione walking about the grounds; she'd taken to strolling up and down the light slopes at that time, feeling somewhat calmed by the crisp early Autumn air and the gradual changes taking place around her. While she walked, she played with the flapping bird she'd made late the previous night as she'd struggled to fall asleep. She'd been practicing how to make it over and over again throughout the week, folding papers from old notebooks and tearing them into clean square shapes to use. She'd gotten fairly proficient at it, able now to create the origami bird quickly and with minimal overlap, her lines and creases growing cleaner and smoother as the paper birds multiplied in her room.

She tugged on its tail, causing its wings to flap quickly as she walked about the grounds, idly wondering how she might coax the professor into teaching her how to make something else.

"Hello, Hermione!" she heard Hagrid's gravelly voice call out to her.

Shaking herself from her reverie, she turned to look at the half-giant. He was kneeling at the edge of a small pond that abutted the boundary of the Dark Forest; he was surrounded by a large group of small, fluffy duck-like creatures that squawked about him noisily. Giving a small smile, Hermione loped down the gentle hill towards him, tucking the origami away as she approached.

"Hi, Hagrid," she greeted as she neared. "Are those Dodo birds?" she asked, taking a closer look at the twenty or so plump little birds.

"Accordin' ter Muggles," he replied with a chuckle. "These 'ere are Diricawls," he added proudly, holding one up for her to see. "Cute little fellers, aren't they?"

"They are," she agreed, smiling as the half-giant nuzzled the little bird who persisted in nipping at his wiry hair. "Where did you find them?"

"Their mums, them o'er there," he said, pointing to three larger ones dunking their heads in and out of the water as they swam across the pond. "They wandered out the Forest a few days ago, trailin' these little devils behind 'em."

"They look just like Dodos," Hermione commented, coming a bit closer as one of the little ones came sniffing over to her.

"Ay," he answered, spreading some corn-like seeds on the ground, laughing as he was quickly overrun with the birds. "Muggles confuse 'em as such, think they hunted 'em into extinction, they do. Diricawls are clever creatures though, disappear whenever they feel danger about. Come closer, Hermione!" he called with a welcoming gesture. "They're very friendly."

As though to prove the point, one of the little birds began gently nipping at Hermione's shoelaces, pulling at it with its tiny beak and shaking its head as though trying to snap it. She giggled and squatted down slowly so as not to frighten it; the bird carefully drew closer to her outstretched hand, giving it a playful nip before waddling back to its siblings with a loud squawk of what sounded like triumph. Hermione chuckled again, moving closer so as to kneel beside the half-giant; the group of birds dispersed to allow her into their little circle and she settled on the ground by Hagrid.

He launched into a long, impassioned lecture about Diricawls and their lineage, where they came from, what magical abilities they exhibited, how they were sometimes kept as pets. He told her how he'd gained permission from Dumbledore to keep them on the grounds for use in his Care of Magical Creatures class that coming term, that they would make an excellent lesson for the first years. At some point, he handed Hermione some of the feed he was giving them and she helped scatter them about the ground, coaxing the birds to breaking off into groups of five or six so they could eat more comfortably. The mothers came waddling out of the pond at a point, just as some of the little ones were jumping into the water; they cocked their heads and regarded Hermione with curious eyes before apparently surmising that she was not a threat. They then trotted out to a sunny portion of ground, fluffing and nibbling at their feathers as they dried themselves.

Hagrid kept chatting for a long while, encouraged by Hermione's intermittent questions and sounds of interest. He told her about the syllabi he'd devised for his classes that coming term; Diricawls and Puffskeins for the first years, Nifflers and Porlocks for seconds, Jabberknolls and Knarls for thirds and on he went, running through his various ideas for creatures that the students could study. Hermione interjected here and there with different suggestions, glad to see that nothing too dangerous sounding had made his list... at least not yet.

"I'd be glad ter have yer help, you know?" he commented after completing his run down.

"Help?" she asked, turning to face him from where she'd been playing with a couple of the more rambunctious birds.

"Sure! You'd be lots 'o help, Hermione," he affirmed, groaning as he regained his feet with some difficulty, shaking out his legs that had gone numb from sitting so long. "Ye could help me feed the animals, take care of 'em with me. Ye could even be my assistant in class when the little ones get 'ere."

"Oh," she replied, lifting up one of the Diricawls that was trying to jump into her lap. She lifted it to her face, laughing as the bird tickled her, nuzzling at her neck and nipping at her curls. "Do you think it would be allowed?" She heard herself ask.

"Course it would!" he exclaimed happily. "I'm sure Dumbledore wouldn't mind at all!"

Hermione glanced down as she felt a beak poking into her side, one of the birds was tugging on the origami piece that she'd tucked into her pocket. It tugged and pulled determinedly, finally wrenching the flapping bird loose, scampering back momentarily in alarm. Hermione giggled, watching it take careful steps forward, poking and prodding at the piece of paper for a minute before grabbing it in its beak and shaking its tiny head from side to side. One of its siblings waddled up to it, gripping the flapping bird's head and tugging on that end. The two little birds started a serious tug-of-war then, squawking indignantly around the paper in their beaks as they each tried to win it.

Laughing out loud at their behavior, Hermione was almost startled by the sound coming from her own throat, so foreign and alien to her ears. How long had it been since she'd laughed? _truly laughed_ at anything? It seemed like forever.

Giving a little shake of her head as the bird in her hands continued nuzzling her throat affectionately, she looked up at Hagrid and gave a nod to her head, smiling at the large, beaming grin that stretched her friend's face.

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><p>That afternoon found Hermione reclining on her little bed staring at its Ravenclaw blue curtains as she valiantly tried to tamp down a mounting ache of melancholy that seemed to be attempting to burrow its way into her chest.<p>

She'd been fine earlier; she'd been utterly fine. Finishing up with Hagrid, she'd continued on a short turn about the grounds, followed by a long soak in the tub and a wonderfully uneventful lunch in the Great Hall where Hagrid was the only one to speak with her, murmuring as quietly as he could that he'd already spoken to Dumbledore and had received full approval for her to help him out in any way she wanted.

All in all, it had been shaping up to be a good day, one of the better days she'd had since the battle, certainly.

She still wasn't quite sure when it had all started to turn south.

No one had spoken to her, neither at lunch nor afterwards; apparently, McGonagall had counseled the professors and staff members to say as little as possible to her. Hermione had quickly cleared roughly half her plate before excusing herself. She'd then walked about the castle for a bit in a directionless and aimless fashion before returning to her room to rest.

It was at that point that this melancholia had seeped in, she decided. She'd been lying on the bed, playing with one of her origami birds and thinking about her morning with Hagrid. Thoughts of the half-giant and his curriculum for class brought to mind recollections of third year and that blasted Hippogriff. From there, the memories had cascaded upon her in a sudden and most overwhelming manner. She didn't recall specifics, but images... so many images bombarded her in a rapid-fire succession that left her breathless.

There she was in third year standing in the snow looking at the Shrieking Shack with Ron; then it was fourth year and the boys had just reconciled after Harry had won the golden egg; then, they were second years again, talking about heirs of Slytherin and monsters hiding in the castle's bowels. Images from sixth year assaulted her, Confunding McLaggen so Ron would do better in Keeper tryouts, crying on Harry's shoulder after she'd seen Ron kissing Lavender, arguing with Harry about the Half-blood Prince's book. Then it was back to fifth year with scenes from their Dumbledore's Army practices assaulting her, learning how to cast a Patronus, dueling with Ron. All those memories, all those recollections, _her entire life_, she had always been surrounded by the boys. It had always _been_ about the boys, about Harry and his mission, about Ron and the pseudo-relationship they'd always tip-toed around, but never did anything about. It had always been about them; and what now? Was she truly supposed to carry on without them? Was she truly supposed to find some sort of life that didn't include them?

And it was too soon, wasn't it? The boys hadn't been gone for more than a couple of months and here she was, trying to move on, trying to forget them. It was an insult to their memory, a voice in her head kept telling her. For her to go around cuddling animals with Hagrid when her best friends had not even been gone a full season yet was a most egregious insult to their memory.

She deserved this, she reminded herself fastidiously. She deserved this melancholy, this bone-crushing grief.

She deserved it all.

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><p>Somehow, Hermione found herself by that side gate of Hogwarts again. She couldn't remember leaving her bed, but somehow she'd wound up there, her fingers gripped around the iron bars, her mind's eye following the trail down to where it would terminate at the train tracks.<p>

The sun was setting at her back, the last vestiges of warmth doing nothing to quell the shaking and trembling of her shoulders as she visualized that trail again and again. She could do it, couldn't she? Hermione could walk out those gates at that very moment, follow the trail down to the train tracks and catch the Express into London.

And then what? What would she do when she got there? She kept telling herself that Grimmauld Place was not an option, even though she had an almost morbid desire to see the house again. But she couldn't. She couldn't go back there. The house held nearly as many memories as this castle did.

But she couldn't stay here. She couldn't stay at this school, as some sort of ward of the state. She would not be a burden here, or anywhere. And she would not - could not - continue on this path of trying to get over it, trying to move on. She couldn't. It was too soon. She hadn't suffered enough, hadn't suffered nearly as much as they had.

As the sun finally disappeared and an - almost welcome - cold wind caressed her back, Hermione felt a presence behind her. She knew without turning that it had to be Professor Snape. No one else had ever found her here, had ever seen her here. How did he know she'd come to this spot? No one had seen her leave the castle, or so she'd thought. He said nothing, merely standing there for a time, quietly, observing her as though she were some specimen to be inspected.

"Why are you here?" she finally asked when she could not bear his silence any longer.

The girl's voice was slightly strained, as though it were unsure of its right to be heard, Severus thought as he watched her.

"Did Dumbledore send you to bring me back to the castle?" she continued, not turning to face him.

"No," he replied, his own voice laced with a foreign uncertainty. "I saw you from the window, coming down here again. I do not understand why you keep standing here."

Hermione leaned her forehead against the cold bars of the gate with a sigh. "It's horrible not understanding," she whispered, more to herself than in response.

"Indeed," he agreed, narrowing his eyes at the young witch's profile.

They stood quietly for some moments, neither speaking, neither moving. Severus wondered again what he was doing here; what was it about this witch that caused him to trail after her, to _care_ for her? He'd always found the Gryffindor insufferable, even after he'd acknowledged her brilliance - even if it was just to himself - but he'd never had any other thoughts concerning the witch. Anytime he'd thought of her, it had been in the context of Potter and his mission and what she was doing to help towards that goal. His thoughts had never centered on her personally and he'd certainly never cared about her emotional state in the slightest. So, what was he doing here? It had to be his curiosity concerning what she'd done to save him that was driving it. There was simply no other explanation.

"I'm afraid," she finally said, breaking Snape from his thoughts.

"You've been through an ordeal," he supplied unhelpfully, refocusing his attention on her.

"I spent the last year chasing Horcruxes, on the run from Snatchers, tortured by Death Eaters... and yet, I'm terrified, now, to leave Hogwarts."

"It's understandable."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'cowardly'," she retorted.

"Only someone unfathomably stupid would call you a coward, Miss Granger," he snapped. "Do I seem unfathomably stupid to you?"

She remained quiet, staring pensively through the bars.

"You have to think before you answer?" he asked dangerously.

"What?" She startled, looking at him as though only now realizing he stood there. "No, of course not. Of course you aren't stupid, what a ridiculous notion."

"Hmm," he hummed noncommittally, watching the girl as she turned and leaned her forehead back against the gate, her fingers flexing around the bars. "Return to the castle, Miss Granger. You'll catch cold."

"I appreciate your concern, Professor," she replied blandly, "but I'm fine."

"That wasn't a request," he growled in a low tone. She said nothing in response, did not even seem to hear him, merely stood there, small fingers clenching the bars repeatedly.

"Come. I will show you how to make a crane." He heard himself offer.

She turned to him with an inscrutable look, her brown eyes downcast and filled with a profound sadness that caused an alien stab in Snape's gut. But the girl said nothing further, simply giving a nod and turning to slowly follow him up the trail back to the castle.

* * *

><p><strong>AN I hope I got Hagrid's tone right... I always have a bit of a time doing any scene with him since he has such a specific speech pattern.**

**Also, I do apologize if the story is turning too angsty (Oh, how I loathe that word); it's not done intentionally, but arises naturally out of the circumstances of the story. Additionally, these cycles are common among a person who is grieving; they try to get better, then feel guilty about it and regress. Also, Hermione hasn't 'broken' yet, she's still repressing her grief and not giving it an outlet; until she does, I can't see her moving forward and actually beginning to heal.**

**What I'm saying is there will likely be a few more 'down' chapters, interspersed with signs of progress, before we reach a resolution. I never like rushing my stories and after something like that, I don't think Hermione would be on her way to healing by Chapter 10 :p So, please bear with me :)**


	11. The O'er Wrought Heart

**A/N Thanks for the lovely words and encouragement and many thanks to felena1971 for the awesome beta-ing :) **

** Title from Shakespeare's Macbeth**_** "Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break."**_

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 11: The O'er Wrought Heart<strong>

It was one week until the Welcoming Feast and the castle was abuzz with activity; the professors and members of staff ran about the school day and night trying to ready it for the incoming students, a small team of volunteers - mostly former students - had also shown up to offer their help and were quickly drafted by Minerva and given various tasks to complete. There remained several sections of the castle which required renovation while areas of the courtyard were still littered with post-battle debris that had not yet been cleared away. Most of the injured had been sent to St. Mungo's or other health-care facilities around the country and so Madam Pomfrey spent most of her time trying to return her hospital wing to its previous state in preparation for the start of term. Professor Flitwick was continuously conferring with Dumbledore as to Charms work which needed to be done, wards and the standard protection spells that had to be reinstated or fortified before students arrived.

McGonagall, who'd taken charge of preparing the school, persisted in inviting Hermione to help, thinking that aiding in the rebuilding would have a therapeutic effect on the girl. It was proactive and distracting work which - theoretically - should take her mind off the grief she continued struggling with. McGonagall was nearing the end of her options for the girl; several times, she tried speaking to her about her future, offering to arrange any kind of study schedule she wanted so that she might complete her seventh year. All the professors had agreed to give her private lessons; and yet, Hermione never gave the old witch any concrete answers. She would make halfhearted sounds of assent and words of thanks, but she never followed up nor did she provide adequate responses when McGonagall tried to coax definite plans out of her.

At one point, Minerva had suggested that leaving the school might be more beneficial to her, that no longer residing in this haunted place would help her move on more effectively. The look her former student gave her at that shamed, alarmed and saddened the old witch in equal measure. She looked betrayed that Minerva would even make such a suggestion, but the girl had merely nodded her head, promising to think about it before escaping to the Lake for an extended run.

The Deputy Headmistress did not know what to do. She was most inadequate at this and Dumbledore was proving to be no help at all.

The old wizard looked wearier by the day and he no longer objected as vociferously when McGonagall suggested that he retire. Consequently, she was counting the days until she would be obliged to take over the running of this school without his comforting presence to give her strength.

It was not a day she was looking forward to.

* * *

><p>Her magic wasn't working properly. McGonagall did not understand that Hermione's magic was still faltering; although to be fair, Hermione did not tell the witch that her magic wasn't working properly, that it kept surging and dipping uncontrollably, that it was more emotionally-driven than it had ever been in her life. She didn't tell her former Head of House any of that, merely enduring an hour or so of trying to force her magic under control so she could help with restorations before begging off, claiming exhaustion.<p>

Madam Pomfrey had weeks ago given her a clean bill of health, telling her that her stores were back to normal levels and there were no latent curses residing in her nor any other sort of malady which might prevent her from functioning. But the Mediwitch had not tested her magical exertion, merely taking stock of her energy stores and running various diagnostics before sending her on her way.

Hermione was limiting her magic anyway; she no longer used it in the frivolous, unconscious way she'd done in the past. She physically retrieved items she wanted rather than Accio-ing them, she allowed her hair to air-dry rather than blasting it with a Drying Charm, she manually tore the old notebook paper into origami squares rather than magically slicing them. She wasn't avoiding magic intentionally - at least, she didn't think so - but Hermione found herself avoiding it whenever she could, as though something within her compelled her to conserve her energy and not waste it on inconsequential matters.

Her days had taken on a routine that Hermione found somewhat comforting; she would spend the mornings with Hagrid and his menagerie of magical creatures, helping to feed and care for them, organizing the half-giant's syllabi into a more cohesive schedule. Her afternoons were spent around the castle helping with the final restorations, trying to do as much of it as she could without magic, only pulling out her wand when someone gave her an odd look as she carried debris out of the courtyard or tried shoving benches and desks into place. Restoration work was inevitably followed by a long run about the Lake where Hermione continued to welcome that glorious numbness that came with the mindless activity; her mind would veritably shut off and she was aware of nothing but the chilly wind raking through her hair, the sound of leaves crunching beneath her feet and the gentle lapping of the water as the Giant Squid tossed and turned.

And the evenings. The evenings - more often than not - found her in the quiet of Professor Snape's chambers in front of his warm fire as she learned how to fold scraps of paper into increasingly elaborate shapes.

She wasn't quite sure how it had become a semi-regular thing. But after that evening where he'd taught her how to fold a crane, she'd inevitably found herself returning to the dungeons the following night. His class and office wards had been easy enough to get through, and she'd stood at the door to his chambers for the longest time, warring with herself as to whether she should knock or leave him be. Perhaps he had a ward or charm of some sort on the door because at some point he'd opened it, startling her from her thoughts. He'd looked at her for a long time, neither of them speaking, before retreating into the den and the pile of square paper laid out on the low table before him. He left the door open, neither inviting her in nor dismissing her, and Hermione found herself moving forward, closing the door softly behind her and taking a seat on the settee. The professor wordlessly handed her a scrap of paper and waited for her to execute the preliminary folds before he continued.

The potions master's patience was limitless - uncharacteristically so, but true nonetheless. He would sit in his armchair quietly, only speaking to give her instruction or correct some mistake she'd made, as he taught her shape after shape. They very rarely spoke more than necessary; he confined himself to conveying instructions while she restricted herself to requesting clarification on folds and methods. She was grateful for it; the fact that he didn't ply her with 'solutions' or questions or suggestions on how to move on with her life came as a great relief. He simply allowed her to be, letting her sit in his quiet den, for hours at a time, folding and creasing pieces of paper into various shapes.

"It's not working," she growled in frustration, resisting the urge to crumple the misshapen owl in her hands.

"What isn't working?" the professor asked from somewhere at her back where he'd been scanning a book-shelf.

"I can't fold the beak down," she huffed, bringing the tip back up and trying to smooth it out.

"You aren't leaving enough space for the double fold."

"I did," she argued.

She felt him move closer, felt the air shift as he leaned over the back of the settee and over her right shoulder. His large, elegant hand came into view, the long, tapered fingers expertly taking hold of the tip of paper and folding it down, his thumb smoothing the crease firmly before he folded it back up in half and effortlessly brought the whole section down again, forming a perfect beak and eye ridge for the owl. Hermione exhaled softly at the simple elegance of the movement, turning to look at him.

His face was closer than she'd expected, his fathomless eyes seeming to swallow her whole. Brown met black, and a thrum of tension stretched between them, crackling and sparking in the otherwise still room. Hermione's eyes unconsciously drifted to his lips; they were thin and pursed, appearing soft despite the stern line they were set in and she was assailed with an inexplicable desire to reach out and trace them with her finger.

The professor seemed to snap out of it then, releasing the paper and righting himself, though Hermione could still feel his eyes on her back. But he ignored the moment - if indeed he'd felt it at all - and she heard him move back to the bookshelf, instructing her in a low, bland voice to try the owl again from scratch.

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><p>The Start-of-Term Feast had arrived.<p>

Hermione sat at the head table, sandwiched between Professors Sprout and Flitwick, as they waited for Professor McGonagall to lead the incoming first years into the Great Hall. The large room was quieter than Hermione had ever experienced it; the younger students took their cues from the older years and adopted a quiet and somber countenance. Looking down the row of teachers, Hermione saw Dumbledore gazing pensively into his goblet of wine, Hagrid was smiling out at the students, Pomfrey was whispering to Madam Hooch while Professor Vector was chatting quietly with Professor Flitwick.

Hermione's eyes fell on Professor Snape, who was frowning down at the tabletop before him; the sight of him sent her stomach into an odd, but distinct somersault. She'd not seen him in two days, the jolt of tension she'd experienced that night in his chambers inexplicably keeping her away even as she longed to see him. It had shocked her, unnerved her; she was aware that what she'd felt was _some_ form of attraction, though the idea seemed foreign and rather frightening. It was the height of foolishness to think she might have feelings for the moody potions master. He was her professor for Merlin's-sake; it was impossible for her to even think such a thing.

And so she'd avoided him, spending the last two days hiding in her chambers, ignoring that instinct to run down to the dungeons.

The great doors opened at the end of the hall, pulling Hermione from her thoughts and with a shake of her head, she turned her attention to her former Head of House who was leading a group of forty or so children down the main aisle. Hermione startled slightly at the sight of them, so small, so fragile; had she and the boys seemed that tiny when they'd first arrived as well? Had they really been so small at one point?

The children gazed up at the magic ceiling, the awe drawn across their features sending a jolt of awareness and nostalgia through Hermione. Their little faces turned this way and that, drinking in the sights and sounds of this wondrous hall and everything it contained. Some of them waved at family and friends seated among the older students while others simply stared in wonder.

She watched Professor McGonagall ascend the steps and stand to the side as Dumbledore took up his post at the podium. The golden owl awakened at his touch, ruffling and swaying its head a bit as its wings expanded outwards. The headmaster stood for a long moment, quietly surveying his students who all sat silently in anticipation of his words. A quiet descended on the head table as well as all staff members turned their attention to the old wizard before them.

"Welcome, all," he began with an infinitesimal sigh, "to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And a special welcome to our incoming first years; this castle will be your home for the next seven years, your fellow students will be your family and we -" He gestured to the teachers behind him. "- will be your support system. Do well, be kind and I wish you all a wonderful year."

With that, the headmaster nodded towards his deputy and retreated to his place at the table, inclining his head respectfully at the loud applause his students honored him with.

Professor McGonagall wasted no time in pulling out her long roll of parchment, squinting at it for a moment before calling out the first name. A swarthy blond-headed boy took the stool, grimacing at the quick Slytherin proclamation before making his way over to the table while the students gave a smattering of halfhearted applause. Hermione glanced over at Professor Snape, watching him scowl in disgust at the roomful of students as one fingertip traced the rim of his goblet. She found herself ensnared by the elegant movement of that finger, watching it go round and round, only distantly aware of McGonagall calling out name after name. As though he'd felt her eyes on him, the potions master turned to her abruptly, locking eyes with her. That same tension seemed to rise up between them again, stretching the length of the table and Hermione was assailed with an inexplicable desire to bring herself closer to him.

There it was again, Snape thought as he locked eyes with the girl. That same jolt of arousal shuddered through him, as it had that afternoon by the Black Lake and as it had again that night in his chambers. And he could no more explain it than he could explain his continued interest in the Gryffindor's well-being or the reasons behind her inability to cry or what she had done to him - _for him_ - that night in the Shrieking Shack. But nevertheless, there it was. He was attracted to the little witch in some way, shape or form. Her body, that small fragile form, seemed to call to him and his own body had - very clearly - given its opinion on the matter.

Snarling at his own weakness, the potions master wrenched his eyes from hers and returned to glaring at the students, noting the reduced number of Slytherins with a disdainful scowl as the Hat announced another Hufflepuff.

Hermione redirected her gaze to the remaining students, her eyes falling on a boy and girl who huddled close together near the front of the group. The boy had scruffy dark hair and she could see his bright green eyes, amplified by the glasses perched on his nose; the girl was small, but with a riot of curls forming a halo around her head. She stood at the boy's right shoulder, shuffling her feet slightly as she watched the proceedings with bright, brown eyes.

_She's exactly where I'd stood_, Hermione thought involuntarily as she tried to smother that sense of helplessness that was rising within her. _So, they look like us_, she told herself rationally; _So, what? Harry and I were common-looking children. There will be hundreds of boys that will remind me of him._

Willing herself to calm down, she watched as the boy was called. He strode confidently up the steps and perched himself on the stool; the Hat descended, murmuring to itself as it shifted this way and that on his head. They seemed to be engaged in some kind of discussion, Hermione thought, leaning forward slightly as though trying to hear. But she couldn't make any of it out from where she was and after a moment the Hat called out 'Gryffindor'. She heard a snort from the far end of the table and turned to see Professor Snape scowling at the boy as he jauntily made his way to the red and gold table. The potions master had also made the connection, it seemed.

Hermione turned her eyes to the girl as she was called next. _They're brother and sister_, she thought, the idea making her even sadder for some reason. The girl strode up the steps to the stool, trying to affect the same confidence her brother had, though it seemed to be more bravado than anything. Hermione glanced at Snape from the corner of her eye and caught him sneering at the little girl as she came up the steps, his thin lips twisted in disdain. Shaking her head slightly, Hermione refocused on her as she took the seat; she fidgeted slightly when the Hat landed on her head, squashing those riotous curls, and impatiently brushed them out of her eyes. The Hat seemed to have a little debate with her as well and Hermione could see the child shaking her head vigorously from beneath the wide brim.

_She's less subtle about it than I was_, Hermione thought, her mind going back to her own Welcoming Feast and the short argument she'd had with the Hat about whether to place her in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw.

But no matter; this little student won just as Hermione had and proudly scampered off to the Gryffindor table a moment later to join her brother, a confident and precocious smile stretching her face.

Eight years ago. Eight years ago that had been her; _she'd_ been that swotty girl ascending the steps and taking a seat on the stool, smiling widely at the Gryffindor pronouncement and bounding over to the red and gold table.

That had been her; that had been them. Despite the notable lack of redheaded students, it was all the same. The room was the same, the players were the same; that had been them eight years ago, when this world had been new and exciting and boundless, before they'd realized the true extent of the horrors that awaited them. Hermione was assailed with a sudden desire to scoop those two children up in her arms and remove them from the castle, take them back home to their parents where they might have a chance to be safe, to be spared the sickening realities that awaited them here.

She tried telling herself that the war was over, tried to convince herself that they were all safe, that _Hogwarts_ was safe, even as her gut began rising up into her throat, lodging itself forcefully in her esophagus. She began breathing heavily, hand on her sternum as she tried to catch her breath while Dumbledore closed out the ceremony. Her eyes unconsciously fell on the boy again; he ran his tiny hand through that unruly hair and Hermione felt a crack in her very bones.

The panic took hold of her brain and all she saw was black; rising silently from her seat, she turned and escaped the Great Hall without a word, not sparing a glance behind her as she went through the teachers' side entrance.

Leaving the now-boisterous Hall behind, she broke into a run through the darkened and quiet corridors, launching herself out one of the side entrances to the castle and bounding through the courtyard, picking up speed as she distanced herself from the school. The cold wind blasted her face, raking her curls back from her forehead and stinging her eyes, but she didn't stop, didn't even slow her pace. Hermione ran at full speed down the rolling slopes, tripping intermittently in her haste, but not bothering to stop, simply gaining her feet again and continuing on, robes gathered up in clenched fists.

She reached that same side gate, but she didn't stop this time, she didn't ponder or wonder or think. Wrenching the iron gate open with a growl of effort, Hermione stepped out of the castle's bounds, feeling the wards' protection as it dropped away behind her; it almost registered as a physical loss and she felt her panic momentarily spike as she turned back to look at the castle. She swallowed it down, backing away from the gates and further into the open space beyond, trying to get her breathing under control as she scanned the way she'd come to see if anyone had followed her.

A sense of relief flooded her at the realization that no one had.

Taking a deep breath and wrapping her arms around her torso for protection, Hermione closed her eyes and turned, vanishing with a soft 'Pop'.


	12. So Like Fear

**A/N I know, I know. I've been gone far too long. Where do I begin and what do I say? The last few weeks have been hectic and odd and kind of sad, life has gotten in the way, my Carpel Tunnel has been acting up (making typing uncomfortable) and my muse has fled to somewhere far away where I can't find her...  
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**Some of you may have noticed that I've deleted some of my stories (okay, _most_ of my stories)... The reason being that I had a bit of a crisis of faith where my writing is concerned and want to do some heavy re-writes on them... Hopefully, I'll have them up again soon; but I want to say how appreciative I am of everyone that read and reviewed them. The reviews have gone with the story deletion, but I hope no one takes that as me being cavalier and dismissive of the lovely and kind words you've all given me. Trust me when I say that each and every review, both good and bad, is firmly noted in me :)  
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**All I can say is that I'm trying to get back into this story and make more progress on Purpose, but it might be slow going and I hope you all will be patient with me. :)  
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**P.S. Title is from _"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear." - C.S. Lewis_** **(A genius if there ever was one...)**

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><p><strong><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>**

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><p><strong><strong>Chapter 12: So Like Fear<strong>  
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Hermione stood on the doorstep of Number 12, Grimmauld Place for the longest time. She heard the Muggles in the neighboring house argue with their children about finishing their vegetables, she heard a program in another neighbor's house begin and she heard it end. She even heard a Muggle bus stop at the corner, the doors opening and closing, people boarding and disembarking noisily. She could not say for sure how long she stood on that step, staring at the dark, mahogany door with its rusted black, iron knocker while the world carried on around her.

Eventually, Hermione reached out and wrapped her hand around the doorknob; it twisted effortlessly and the heavy door swung open easily before, inviting her into the home that - apparently - was now hers. She stepped into the dank, dark hallway, hand braced unsteadily to the wall as she took in the house that held so many memories. Moving through the hall, Hermione tripped over a fold in the rug, banging noisily into the wall beside her as she went down.

"Filthy Mudblood! Desecrating the Noble House of Black!" a high voice screeched out from above her. She looked up to see old Mrs. Black's portrait come alive and sneer down at her from its frame. "Disgusting creature!" she hissed, thin lips twisted in distaste. "Get off my floor and OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Hermione made no response as she rose carefully to her feet and continued moving down the hall, ignoring the portrait's indignant screeching behind her.

The old house looked much as it had the last time she'd been there. A fine layer of dust coated nearly every surface, the motes swirling in the cold air and tickling her nose; an eerie quiet pervaded the building, everywhere around her was the epitome of silence. It seemed so odd to be here without the boys; she didn't think she'd ever stepped foot in this house without them and the space was entirely too bereft of their easy laughter and boisterous behavior.

It was haunted. It was just so haunted.

She pushed into the main den off the hallway, magically lighting the sconces on the wall as she did so; she gripped the door tightly as she took in the dimly-lit room. The dark green sofas were still in the same position opposite to each other, drawn close together with the small pallet on the floor between them. Ron had been so adamant that she take the sofa, despite her assurances that the floor was fine with her; the memory of that chivalry and how happy he'd looked when she'd finally capitulated brought an uncomfortable tightness to her chest. She shook her head to clear it, gazing down at the bedding and pillows that remained as they'd been that last morning, strewn and scattered carelessly about the cushions and floor, as though waiting for them to return, waiting for them to settle in, talking about the war and their plans long into the night.

"Does the Mistress require something?"

Hermione jumped with a startled shriek, turning with a hand on her chest and looking down into the slightly sneering face of Kreacher. The house-elf did not seem at all pleased to see her; his upper lip was curled into a grimace of distaste, shoulders and head held in a tense and somehow defiant bow while he waited for her to reply. Clearly the inheritance extended as far as the elf and, just as clearly, Hermione could see the offense he took at the idea of a Mudblood like her ruling over him and his beloved domain.

"Kreacher," she acknowledged, saying no more to the elf as she turned her back on him and walked slowly into the den.

She could feel him watching her, but she didn't care. Let the elf stand there all day and night if he wanted to, it made no difference to her.

She was so tired, so very tired.

And with that thought, Hermione crawled onto the sofa where she'd slept every time they'd stayed at the house, curled up into a ball under the covers, closed her eyes, and promptly shut out the world.

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><p>When she woke sometime later, Hermione could hear two voices murmuring in the hall beyond the den. Holding herself still, eyes closed in a facsimile of sleep, she could not help but overhear the conversation outside the door.<p>

"Yes, well I don't care what choice adjectives you use to describe her, Kreacher; she is the Mistress of the house and _your_ master," Professor McGonagall said, her voice tired and huffy.

"Passing such a noble house as this to a Mudblood." She heard the house-elf complain in response.

"You will _not_ use such terms in front of her, do you understand me?" the old witch barked.

"Kreacher does not take orders from anyone but the master of the House," he answered in a belligerent tone.

She heard McGonagall sigh just as Mrs. Black's portrait flared to life again.

"Of course, you don't take orders from that filth!" she shrieked from down the hall. "Get that hideous thing out of my house right now!"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," McGonagall said with another sigh.

"Kreacher is here, Mistress." She heard the elf croon, his voice sounding further away and Hermione could imagine him stretching up his thin arm to stroke Mrs. Black's frame in an effort to calm her. "Everything is alright," he continued. "Kreacher will not serve anyone but the House of Black."

"You will serve the Master of the House." She heard McGonagall proclaim in a sharp, impatient tone. "And that Master is Miss Granger, therefore, you will serve her quietly and without fuss so long as she remains here."

"_How dare you!_ I am the only Mistress of this House!" the portrait shrieked indignantly. "You will leave! You will leave at once and take your filthy Mudblood with you!"

"Enough!" She heard McGonagall shout before giving a strong, loud incantation that Hermione didn't recognize.

The hallway fell quiet and she heard Kreacher give a squeak of alarm.

"Mistress!" he cried plaintively. But Mrs. Black made no response and Hermione found herself oddly curious as to what Charm or spell the professor had used to silence her.

"Your Mistress is asleep in the den," McGonagall replied coolly and Hermione could hear her professor moving back down the hallway in her direction.

She closed her eyes again, burrowing deeper into her nest of pillows and blankets, pushing her face into the soft fabric. Forcing her breathing to slow and deepen, Hermione held herself still as she heard the door open softly. She felt the professor step into the room, heard the minute sigh she emitted as she drew closer. She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, as McGonagall came around the back of the sofa.

The professor leaned over slightly to better see the girl, noting how small and fragile she appeared. She'd never seen her former student, who always seemed to embody the best traits of her House, looking so delicate, so breakable. But she did, McGonagall thought sadly as she gazed at her; her hair was dull and tangled, its sheen entirely gone, dark circles ringed her eyes, giving them a deep and bruised look, and her sharp features were pinched and taut, a line a of tension stretched between her brows. She looked entirely too fragile, as though a simple touch would be enough to cause her to crumble into nothing.

McGonagall gave another sigh, gently brushing the girl's hair back from her forehead with one hand as the other cast some simple diagnostic spells on her. The results showed nothing but fatigue and the old witch gave another sigh, not knowing quite what to do with her. Should she wake her and implore her to return to the castle? Should she leave her here and let her try to work through this on her own? Should she send a Patronus to the headmaster and consult him on the matter?

In the end, the professor employed a compromise of sorts. She couldn't bring herself to wake the girl nor did she wish to trouble Dumbledore with the matter, but she could not stomach the idea of leaving her former student without informing her in some way of her presence. So she walked over to the desk at the side of the room, wrote a detailed note filled with words of support and understanding, folded it and placed it in the girl's line of sight. Giving another motherly stroke to her head, McGonagall left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Hermione released a sigh of relief that the witch had not tried to wake her. She needed, _she wanted_, to be alone. She could not face the castle's inhabitants any longer; she needed this and thankfully, her former Head of House seemed to understand.

She heard the old witch give another stern set of words to Kreacher who made no response that Hermione could hear.

And then all was silent.


	13. Empty though it may be

**A/N I will probably be spending every Author's Note apologizing for the slow updating...  
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**I've started a work of original fiction, which I'm devoting quite a bit of my time to. It's always been a dream of mine to be a published writer and I've decided that this year is the year to make real, measurable progress on it. I don't want to completely abandon fan fiction though and will continue posting on this story and Purpose Part II (which I'll hopefully start posting soon), but between those two fics, the original story _and_ my job, things may slow down considerably.  
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****Thank you all for sticking with me though and I hope you enjoy this chapter. ****

****P.S. Many thanks to felena1971 for the beta-ing :D  
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><p><strong>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 13: Empty though it may be <strong>

When Hermione woke, the bright light of morning was streaming through the large windows lining the room; McGonagall must have pulled the drapes open before leaving, she thought in passing as she blinked in annoyance. She sat up carefully, her body aching and protesting every movement as she worked out the kinks born of sleeping all night in the same position. She had kicked the blanket off sometime in the night, and Hermione sat there staring at it where it lay on the floor between the two sofas. It had landed on Ron's discarded duvet, the blue and green fabrics almost melting into one another on the dark floor.

She didn't know how long she sat there, staring at the furniture and bedding; she felt a faint rumbling in her stomach and wondered when she had last eaten. She couldn't remember.

Everything seemed ethereal, like she wasn't actually there; it was as though she hadn't truly survived. She was merely some apparition, floating and coasting through this awful reality, aware but never touching it.

Hermione startled as she saw a sudden flurry of movement from the corner of her eye. She barely registered the old elf's presence before he was gone again, leaving a tray on the small table by the sofa. Her stomach rumbled again as she took in the scent of freshly brewed tea and baked scones, involuntarily inching to the side and pouring herself a cup. She nibbled on a scone, sipping her tea, as she gazed around the quiet and desolate room, wondering whether she should be here, whether it would not be better to return to Hogwarts.

She hated this; Hermione hated this indecision, this frailty, this insecurity of hers. She'd never been this way; she had always had a plan, _she'd_ always been the strong one, coaxing the boys towards one action or another. Always a quick decision maker; once Hermione had gathered enough information and was sure of all possible outcomes, she would make the decision and put all her energy towards it. But now, now she was weighted down by doubt, fears, guilt and many more emotions that she could not quite define.

It was unnerving, and she hated it.

And yet, even as she felt some kind of resolve - some trace of the Old Hermione - build up within her, she gave a long sigh, placed her empty tea cup back on the tray, rose from the sofa and drifted out of the room.

Careful to keep away from the entrance hall, lest McGonagall's spell prove to be only temporary, Hermione moved absentmindedly down the hall, avoiding the room which she knew held the Black Family Tree, and making slow, careful progress up the staircase. The wood creaked and groaned under her feet, but she ignored it, just as she ignored the hideous heads and paintings lining the moldy walls. The House had certainly fallen into disrepair since last they'd been here; even then it had degenerated from Molly's mass cleaning before fifth year, the three of them had not wasted any time caring about the state of the house when they'd hidden out there, assuming Kreacher would care for the place as he always had. But it seemed the elf was not keen on keeping the house together.

_Apart from the walls_, she thought with a slight sneer as she rounded another staircase, noticing the spotless cases with their magically-preserved elf heads.

She drifted into one of the third-floor bathrooms, taking a look around and wondering whether she should bother with a cleaning charm; the thought caused her to pat her side pocket curiously. Her wand was incidental more than anything these days, Hermione honestly could not recall when last she'd performed any kind of spell or charmswork. Deciding it wasn't worth it, she shut herself in the room, used the facilities and started the water running in the tub.

Stripping off her robes and clothing, she climbed in, leaned back and waited for the water to rise.

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><p>Hermione remained in the tub so long her fingers turned to tiny shriveled prunes and the water became ice-cold around her, and still it was another half hour before she mustered the energy to move.<p>

Drying herself off with an old towel she found stuffed under the sink, she replaced her clothes and made her way slowly back down to the ground floor, pausing sharply at the door to the den. The sun was going down, with only pinkish rays of light coming in through the grimy windows, and she wondered how long she'd spent in the tub.

She stepped into the room, her stomach protesting again and idly wondered where Kreacher was and whether he would anticipate her need for tea and scones again.

Just then, she heard the faintest of 'pops' outside the door; turning in place, her eyes widened as Professor Snape walked briskly into the den, coming to an abrupt stop as he saw her.

The girl looked awful, he thought as he took in her appearance. That mane was a knotted mass of frizz around her head, which when coupled with her stick-thin figure gave her the appearance of a lolly; her big, brown eyes were dull and vacant, skin pale and dry-looking. He could see the sharp points of her collarbone above the neck of her shirt, and her cheekbones had grown alarmingly prominent in her face, her eyes wide and deep-set as she stared at him.

She was wasting away. She was wasting away in this miserable hole and Snape again felt the involuntary fury he'd had the previous evening when Minerva had returned to the castle without the girl. She'd stated, emphatically, that she'd checked in on the Gryffindor, that Granger seemed to need to be away from the school, that it was best for her to have a change of scene.

But this, this was too much. They were losing her and it seemed imperative to Snape that he not leave Grimmauld without the girl.

"Professor Snape," Hermione finally said when it became clear he wouldn't address her first.

He cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably and replied, "Miss Granger."

She twisted the cuff of her sweater in her fingers, seeing his onyx eyes zero in on the act, which he watched with a curious expression. Still he said nothing for several moments and Hermione began fidgeting nervously.

"What are you doing here?" she asked with more than a note of exasperation at his silence.

His eyes flicked up to hers and he shuffled slightly on his feet, an action that seemed wildly uncharacteristic and Hermione's own eyes shot to his black, dragon-hide boots as she caught the movement.

"The headmaster asked me to check on you," he lied effortlessly. Dumbledore was barely present at the castle any longer and Snape doubted whether he was even aware that the girl had fled the Hall that night.

"Oh," she replied though she held an expression on her face which told Severus that she didn't quite believe him. "I see." She nodded her head and half-turned towards the room behind her. "Well, I'm fine."

"I can see that," he said sarcastically, looking around the dismal and cold room.

He saw the discarded bedding littering the floor and sofas and found himself thinking that he couldn't remember ever trusting someone enough to sleep in their presence. He turned his attention back to the girl, noting that she seemed put out by his sarcastic reply, but she made no comment, merely walking to the liquor cabinet at the far end of the room.

"Drink?" she asked, wondering why she was inviting him to linger.

"Hmm," he affirmed, watching the unsteady, yet oddly graceful way she moved.

She pulled two glasses and a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey down from the shelf, blowing in the glasses before pouring in three fingers of liquor each. She made her way back to him, pointedly ignoring the mess on the floor and handed him one of the glasses.

"To victory?" she remarked sardonically, lifting her glass to his with a passive expression.

He clinked his glass against hers. "Empty though it may be," he replied with a tip of his head.

Her eyebrows lifted and she made a small noise of agreement as she sipped her drink, her eyes locked on his as they stood there in silence. Now that he was here, he did not know quite what to say to her. He was prepared to return her to the school forcibly, but it would be infinitely preferable for the girl to come of her own accord. But how to convince her? How to persuade her to return when she seemed - at the moment - to be beyond rational thought?

Hermione stood there for several long moments, feeling the burn of the whiskey as it scorched its way down her throat, and watched him. When had the professor become so striking to her? She could not remember it happening and yet there it was; his bottomless eyes, long, wiry frame, and that hair that was so black it was nearly blue, she found it all so terribly arresting. She idly wondered if perhaps he felt something for her as well. It didn't seem likely, but then again, _clearly_ he'd been lying about the headmaster. She could sense it as soon as he'd said it; and besides, Dumbledore seemed as lost and adrift as she was, perhaps even more so... Maybe McGonagall had sent him, but then why not say so? Had he come to fetch her of his own accord? Because he was _worried_ about her?

It seemed impossible, but what other reason could there be?

"You cannot remain here," he commented after some time. Her eyes met his again; they were brimming with sorrow, desolation, and what seemed to be a note of that long-lost curiosity she was so famous for.

She made no reply at first, but silently held her hand out for his empty glass. He gave it to her and the girl returned to the liquor cabinet. She stood there for a beat, twisting the cap of the Firewhiskey bottle back and forth as he watched her quietly.

"I can't?" she finally asked, untwisting the cap and pouring two more fingers into each glass.

"No," he answered, watching her movements, wishing he could see the expression on her face. "You should not be alone. You belong at the castle."

The girl gave a mirthless laugh, replacing the bottle, picking up the glasses and returning to him. She handed him the glass as she remarked, "I don't feel like I belong anywhere."

Snape looked at the girl, utterly absorbed in her quiet vulnerability, a vulnerability that asked for nothing. She was unused to needing help; she was the one who had always rushed to peoples' aid, whether it was her two companions, other teachers or random students. Hermione Granger had always had answers; he knew she'd always been the leader in that little trio, no matter how much puffery Potter engaged in. She had always been confident in her knowledge and actions. Was it any wonder that she was sinking under this grief of hers? She could not turn to anyone, she was so unaccustomed to needing to. It was a feeling Snape was acutely familiar with; he, himself, had always been loath to ask for assistance, no matter how sorely he might have needed it. He felt a sudden kinship with the witch, as though something within him was recognizing a similar being in her.

It was an unnerving and discomfiting feeling, to be sure.

But it would not sway him... Not tonight, anyway.

He met her eyes again, the lines between his brows softening slightly as he repeated, "You belong at the castle."


	14. Another Step Forward

**A/N I know, I know. Those of you following Purpose Part II know that I said this story was on hiatus, but what can I say? I got hit with some inspiration :p  
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**I also have a pretty good idea about the upcoming chapters.  
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**Uber thanks to the lovely felena1971 for the awesome beta-ing and encouragement!  
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><p><strong><em>Disclaimer: See Chapter 1<em>  
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><p><strong>Chapter 14: Another Step Forward<strong>

After two glasses of Firewhiskey, it was much easier to coax Granger into returning to Hogwarts. They'd sat quietly, in the armchairs before the dormant fireplace, sipping their drinks until the half-empty bottle was no more. The girl's head had lolled back against the headrest, her long neck stretching - a creamy temptation that Severus struggled to ignore - as her eyes closed against the world. He'd allowed her that, staring at her profile for an uncomfortably long time until it seemed she'd fallen asleep. A clearing of his throat proved otherwise and he was able to persuade her to leave the house.

And so she'd returned to the castle, where the staff pretended not to know of her absence; she sat quietly at the High Table during meals, took solitary walks about the grounds, and spent her evenings in his chambers.

Severus hadn't invited her back, to be sure. It was a painful sense of trepidation-slash-anticipation that gripped him when the knock had sounded at his door. It could only have been her; no one else disturbed him there. He'd waved the door open from his spot at the desk, saying nothing as she drifted into the room and took her seat on the sofa. He levitated some squares of paper over to her, preparing to abandon his intricate dragon to teach her how to fold a cat or perhaps a phoenix. But she ignored the papers, staring quietly into the crackling flames; and so he returned the favor, ignoring her as he resumed his folding and pinching.

Eventually the girl left as silently as she'd come, giving him no more than a nod as she left his chambers.

Severus did not sleep well that night.

Nevertheless, she'd returned promptly the following evening; that time she'd accepted the paper, following along quietly as he walked her through a cat, then a fox, then an elephant. Her soft voice broke through once or twice, asking about this fold or that method; she rarely looked at him, but when she did, he would be assailed with an unnerving feeling of drowning in those massive eyes.

For the most part though, he left her alone, going through his potions notes or flipping through a text while she practiced various shapes. At times he thought to speak to her, question her about what she'd done for him. But he could never find a way to broach the topic of the Shrieking Shack without bringing to the fore this grief of hers, or the events of the battle. The last thing Severus needed was for her to break down in his chambers.

Minerva continued to hold the girl firmly under her wing; Dumbledore was ensconced in his chambers and rarely seen. It seemed the old wizard had been reduced to nothing more than a symbolic figure at the school. Consequently, McGonagall held reign over the High Table, watching over her charges with the same strictness she'd always shown. But she managed to keep an eye on the girl, sending glances her way when the Gryffindor merely picked at her meals rather than eating them. A happier, more confident, energy rolled off the old witch when, later in the week, the girl began to do more than pick.

Of course, it wasn't of Granger's own volition. Oh, no, she seemed wholly unconcerned with her health. And so Severus had concocted a potion to stimulate her appetite; it was a strengthened version of the brews mothers typically used on their children to fortify them. He'd supplemented it with vitamins and restoratives, and was covertly slipping them to the house-elves with instructions to add the potions to the girl's drinks. Tasteless and odorless, Granger was unaware of the subterfuge, and after taking them at every meal for three days, her appetite began to noticeably improve.

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><p>Hermione was feeling better.<p>

And she was trying very hard not to feel guilty about it.

She went through the motions her first few days back at the castle, moving like a ghost through the halls and corridors, enduring the meals in the Great Hall with the cacophonous children, and trying to be as unobtrusive as possible when she invaded Professor Snape's quarters in the evening. She wanted to speak to him; she didn't even know what topic to broach, but she ached to hear his voice. It rooted her to reality in a way nothing at Hogwarts seemed to; the silken drawl would wash over her, filling her with warmth and comfort, even though all he did was explain a fold or crease. It didn't matter; the wizard could read off a Muggle phone book and she would covet it just as intensely.

Her attraction to him was growing stronger each day; he had a quiet strength, a solemn presence that calmed her. She would sit before the fire, practicing her origami, casting sidelong glances at him as he read a book or wrote in one of the myriad journals that littered his desk. She longed to crack them open, take in that scent of parchment and ink, absorb his brilliant words; for how could they be anything but brilliant?

Sometimes she wished he would talk to her instead of _at_ her, wished he would instigate some conversation that didn't start with _'The first fold goes diagonally.'_ But she was nevertheless grateful for the space he gave her, the quiet solace she was allowed to have in this dimly-lit chamber, awash in his soothing presence.

She had woefully little knowledge of the world outside Hogwarts... Truth be told, she had little knowledge of what went on _in_ Hogwarts. She did not seek out the paper nor did she pay any mind to the chatter of the staff or the snippets of conversation she gleaned from students passing in the hall. She listened to none of it and was blissfully unaware of any developments in Wizarding London.

But her curiosity remained on a certain issue; and one evening, as Professor McGonagall sipped tea in Hermione's room, she mustered the courage to ask the headmistress about the Weasleys.

"Oh, they are in a dreadful mourning," McGonagall replied, leaning back in her seat with a shake of her head.

"Are they still at the Burrow?"

The old witch gave her a kind look and nodded. "They are; they never leave as I heard it. Arthur has returned to work, of course; but Percival and Ginerva remain with their mother."

"And how is Mrs. Weasley?" she asked, eyes locked on the high window of her room.

There was a long pause, but Hermione did not turn to the headmistress. Finally, she said, "She is not coping well, but that is to be expected, of course."

Hermione looked to her lap, tears springing behind her lids. "I wish they knew how sorry I am," she whispered.

"Oh, my dear," McGonagall said. "My dear, sweet girl, of course they know how sorry you are for their loss. Their loss is _yours_ as well after all." The witch shifted to the edge of Hermione's bed, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"So many children," she said, shaking her head and burying her face in her palms. "How could so many of their children be taken? Just like that, in one night? It isn't fair," she whimpered petulantly, rocking herself again as a few tears slipped through.

"I know, I know." The headmistress rocked with her, making soft, soothing sounds. "None of this is fair. But it is the reality, and we _must_ soldier on."

"Soldier on?" she said with a snort.

"Yes," McGonagall replied firmly. "We must soldier on with our lives. We owe our friends that much, at the very least."

Hermione was quiet for a long time, simply rocking against her former Head of House, taking some small measure of comfort from the witch's words. She knew she was right; Harry and Ron, Remus and Tonks, Fred and George, Neville and Luna, none of them would want her to wallow in this half-existence forever. She would, _she should_, honor them and their sacrifice by moving forward, by trying to forge out some small life for herself amid this ruin. Perhaps if she were able to, then Ginny might follow; and if her daughter was able to find happiness again, then perhaps Mrs. Weasley would find the strength to share it.

She rocked, tears slipping quietly down her face as McGonagall kept up a string of comforting words.

"I don't want them to hate me," she admitted after a long silence, burying her face in her palms again.

The headmistress placed a small kiss to her forehead. "They never could, my dear. They never could."


End file.
